


This Deadly Love

by TianShan



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, F/M, Forced Drinking, Frotting, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, Imprisonment, Light Bondage, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Tantra, Threesome, Voyeurism, Wall Sex, gulag, waterbed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-14 07:52:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 72,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4556679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TianShan/pseuds/TianShan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Ch 1) 1988. 1947. 1949. The end of Prussia, the naming of East Germany, and the fall of the Soviet Union heralded by golden arches and a stupid clown.</p><p>(Ch 2) 1953. 1961. 1963. Gilbert is a prisoner, not a priest. East Germany watches one of the first immortalize himself as the wall jumper. West Germany realizes he would have been better off as a tantric master.</p><p>(Ch 3) 1972. 1953. 1969. 1975. 1989. America and Russia play chess. Gilbert learns why he was sent to the Gulag. Poland asks for forgiveness. Austria remembers why he fell in love with Hungary. Czechoslovakia deals with German traitors. East Germany learns that Prussia is a dick.</p><p>(Ch 4) October and November, 1989. East Germany grows up and looks fantastic in blue. Gilbert gets his name back. Russia puts his plan in action. West Germany steals America's motorcycle. </p><p>(Ch 5) November, 1989. The Germanys find each other. America has a waterbed and a sledgehammer. </p><p>(Ch 6) March-September, 1990. The power of Two Plus Four. East Germany votes. West Germany asks for America's soft power and gives it to him hard. Japan puns better than I do.</p><p>(Ch 7) Fall, 1990. Reunification, a house, a dog. East Germany is saved; the bell tolls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_April, 1988_

Gilbert comes to half-consciousness on a firm, giving surface, swaddled thick in woolen and knitted blankets. He had been sleeping on his back, which is currently being taken advantage of: cool, firm hands press along the thin planes of Gilbert's shoulder, chest; the hollow of his stomach.

The rise from sleep isn't rude, but squinting sleep-blurred eyes toward the balcony proves that light has barely touched Moscow's skies with a hazy smudge. "Russia, what the fuck," Gilbert mutters, though his head tips back reflexively when wide, calloused fingers gently pinch at his nipples and his exhale is shaky.

"Good morning," Russia says from somewhere above him, a dark, faceless lump at this godforsaken hour. One of those calloused hands trails lower to where Gilbert's torso starts to give way to his legs; a blunt fingernail teasingly scrapes along the path of hair pointing the way to an erection Gilbert knows is already there. 

Gilbert groans, his eyes slamming shut like heavy weights had been applied. "Russia, it's too fucking early--" his protests end as a gasp when slick, wet digits start to tease at his ass; however, he's laying on his back and his legs aren't spread so Russia isn't able to penetrate without force.

Russia, surprisingly, doesn't use force that often. Only when drunk does he try; Gilbert isn't foolish enough to refuse General Winter's scion when fueled on vodka, however, so violence doesn't occur. When sober, though, Gilbert was somewhat amused to learn Russia had a far softer touch than expected. 

"But you don't have to do anything," Russia says, sounding pleased, those slick, wet digits probing and promising along his backside, leaving cool licks of feeling wherever they wander. "And afterward, can go back to sleep."

Gilbert shifts in the mess of blankets - even in the superheated apartment complexes of Russia's heart, he sleeps swaddled, he will never be cold again, never _ever_ \- and groans. "Fucking fine," he acquiesces, and is rewarded by Russia's large hand brushing along his cock. A breath escapes Gilbert at the feeling that shivers up his spine.

Russia makes another pleased noise as Gilbert's legs spread, and those teasing, wet fingers gently reach up and massage at Gilbert's opening while Russia's dry hand just barely tweaks his nipples, causing sharp, fleeting sparks of pleasure to roll over Gilbert's skin.

Breath escapes Gilbert's body faster; his lips part even as his eyes stay closed. This does feel heavenly; eventually one of Russia's cool fingers slides inside Gilbert's sleep-relaxed body and it starts to move, in and out, in and out… the finger at Gilbert's nipples moves lower and starts to toy lightly with his cock, soft little strokes with fleeting fingertips.

 "Ahnn," Gilbert groans after a few moments of this, sleep-hazed and aroused, feeling his body starting to flush pink from cheeks to chest, a blush of arousal as clear and obvious as daylight starting to overtake the night outside. 

"Mmm," Russia rumbles in response, voice like ice cracking in the thaw. The teasing touches continue, and Gilbert's body starts to thrust up for more.

It's early, yet. Gilbert figures that any off-hand comments about enthusiasm later can be blamed on lack of sleep. One finger becomes two, and Gilbert sighs into the burn.

Pleasure lances up and down his body in lazy loops as the fingers scissor and stretch - a touch of cold as Russia adds more lubricant to make it easier. Gilbert arches up with a sigh to let the Russian's fingers work him deeper.

Russia takes him slow, and Gilbert opens his eyes to watch this part. Russia is rarely, rarely shirtless or even without his coat, but in the sanctuary of the greenhouse-hot apartment, it's worth the effort to see the alabaster skin, the defined muscles, the patchwork of scars. 

In fact, Gilbert thinks that out of all the nations he's the one that's seen this the most, and isn't sure what that means. He puts it out of his mind as his head drops back on the lumpy, heavy pillow. Russia lifts Gilbert's legs, Gilbert lets him, and Russia's hips rock him in the familiar, slow pattern of careful intercourse. It feels good, and Gilbert lets it take him to completion, where his pleasure spills over Russia's hand. Russia hums, pumps himself a few more times, and Gilbert can feel Russia's pleasure rush inside him, as well.

As promised, once finished, Russia lowers Gilbert's legs, and Gilbert can feel the other's bulk move from the bed, allowing him to doze off once more.

When the sun was at a better position in the sky, Gilbert opened his eyes and went to the window, looking down at the foot traffic of Kitai-Gorod; by the amount, it was yet mid-morning.

"Awake, at last."

 Gilbert turned around to see Russia wrapped in a red flannel robe, leaning against the door, in garish blue house slippers. One hand rested casually in a pocket, while the other delicately pinched a teabowl between thumb and forefinger; the china almost looked comical, so delicate and fine, laced with flowers, held expertly by a giant.

Gilbert snorted, still entirely naked. " _You're_ the one that goes around waking people up in the middle of the night to fuck them," he pointed out, bending down to pick up a threadbare towel from the floor.

"And yet still manages to get up at a decent hour," Russia replied, sipping delicately at his steaming bowl of be-flowered tea, completely unlike the bloody butcher he was.

Not that Gilbert had room to talk, not really. "I'm going to shower," Gilbert announced, stepping toward the doorframe the Russian was blocking.

Russia moved easily, like a giant door swinging open to let him through. "Hot water's in the samovar," he said, lumbering back toward the kitchen.

One of the better aspects of communism, Gilbert mused, was the endless hot water. Of course, it didn't work _everywhere_ (in these days, it didn't work in _most_ places not Moscow), but the Soviets weren't going to let their nation personification languish in a cold-water apartment and Gilbert took full advantage of it. As he scrubbed his hair, the scent of blini wafted through the house; this prompted Gilbert to leave the decadence of unlimited hot water behind, wind the towel around his waist, and follow his nose. 

Predictably, Russia was making the thin pancakes in one pan on the stove, while another pan was toasting completed, stuffed blini. "Tvorog," Russia told him, seemingly oblivious to the huge puddles Gilbert was creating on his floor on the way to the samovar and instant coffee.

"Preserves?" Gilbert asked, spooning so much sugar into his coffee it probably would candy his intestines. 

"Plum," Russia responded, jerking his head toward the table where a jar sat. Prussia nodded, and helped himself to the entire pan of completed, stuffed blini, dumping them onto a plate and replacing the pan; Russia rolled five more tvorog-filled blini into it to toast with butter.

Silence, then, and this could almost be normal; Gilbert spooned copious amounts of runny preserves over his cheese-stuffed breakfast and had half of it down his throat before Russia sat down with his own plate, similarly loaded. Gilbert looked up in time to see the other pouring sweet plum juice into his tea.

This could _almost_ be normal. He paused, red eyes searching along the tired-etched lines in Russia's face, the circles under the eyes only appearing dark when focused on.

The unspoken question had been floating in the back of Gilbert's head for a while; when Russia looked up, one cheek bulging with half-masticated breakfast and raised an eyebrow, Gilbert put voice to it.

"How does it feel?" Gilbert asked, carefully spearing a curd of tvorog onto a fork tine and examining it like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

Russia swallowed and reached for his plum-laced tea. "How does what feel?"

Gilbert's eyes flicked away from the fork. "How does it feel to be falling apart?"

The unspoken question. _Pravda_ said otherwise, but everybody knew it was a lie. Everybody with a television and a hacked antenna channeling CNN knew it was a lie.

Even Gilbert knew it was a lie; Gilbert without a nation, without a name.

Thirty years ago Gilbert wouldn't have dared ask the question - not so soon, not after stepping out starved and disoriented from a Black Maria - but things had changed. In fact, things were changing so rapidly that it was hard to know which way was up any longer.

If there's one thing that could be said for prison, Gilbert thought as Russia blinked at him, at least things made sense. Bloody sense, terrible sense, but you knew what to expect.

Not any longer. Nothing made any damn sense.

Russia was still staring at him, but the tension snapped when he put down his teacup and started to laugh, uproariously.

Gilbert tensed; this was normally _not_ a good sign, but he knew for a fact that Russia, for the moment, was sober

When Russia managed to calm his yelps of glee - ? - he wiped his eyes and stood, sidling over to the window of his apartment, looking down into the traffic on the street. Gilbert was silent; the only thing that moved in the apartment for a few slow movements was the steam dancing on top of Gilbert's coffee.

"I can't tell you what it feels like because it hasn't happened yet," Russia said, voice calm again, his back still to Gilbert in the small, warm kitchen.

Gilbert blinked. "…yet?" he prompted.

"Yet," the Russian confirmed, and turned around, leaning against the window, crossing his arms, still looking amused. "But I can tell you what it will taste like."

This got an incredulous look from Gilbert, who reached forward to grab his cup of coffee'd sugar. "Ash? Blood? Steel? Rust? Gunpowder? Nuclear fallout?" he asked, voice dry.

Russia hummed, but waved his hand at Gilbert's suggestions. "A Big Mac and order of fries." 

What. Gilbert raised an eyebrow. He knew what those things were, of course; he wasn't an idiot. "The downfall of the Soviet Union is going to taste like McDonalds," he repeated in a bland tone. (Thirty years ago, this would have been more than enough to get one locked away, but things had changed…)

"Just last week my bosses said it was okay for McDonalds to build a restaurant here," Russia said, tipping his head, looking amused. "I hear they make apple pie."

Gilbert stared at Russia as if he were insane - which, after all this time, Gilbert still wasn't entirely sure about. "They're putting in a _McDonalds_?"

Russia nodded, standing from the window to go collect his ridiculously-tiny teacup once more. "Yes, on Pushkin Square. It's going to be the biggest McDonalds in history, even. Seating for 700." He sipped.

Gilbert stared.

"So it's over," Russia said with a shrug.

"Just like that," Gilbert said, still not entirely sure this conversation was happening - he was half-expecting to wake up and find himself with Russia's cock buried balls-deep in his ass at 4 in the morning.

"I suspect it will take a couple of years," Russia went on, like he was discussing the outcome of a minor-league hockey game he didn't really give a shit about. 

"For the Soviet Union to fall apart?" Gilbert asked. 

Russia snorted. "No, for them to build the McDonalds. The Soviet Union won't end until a bit after that. People are going to have to have time to _eat_ the McDonalds first and decide they want more of it before it all goes to hell." 

Prussia crammed another blini in his mouth just to stall for time. God, talking with Russia was such a mindfuck, and he'd been doing it almost daily for 30-freakin-years. "So does this mean I can go--"

Russia stepped forward, which made Gilbert slam his mouth shut and swallow on blini that could have stood a bit more chewing. "Not yet," Russia said, and went to put his empty teacup down. "You clean up. I have to go to work."

Gilbert's mouth was sealed together with cheese and sticky preserves, but it didn't stop him from scowling at the Russian's back as he retreated to the bedroom to dress. "Not yet" had been Russia's perfectly placid response for thirty years. _Not yet. Not yet. Not yet._

But Gilbert wasn't an idiot. And he hadn't been fucking Russia for 30 years for nothing. Things were changing. Gilbert reached forward and grabbed his now-lukewarm coffee, taking it down in quick drafts to clear his mouth of blini. 

 _Not yet_ had been the constant chorus, two words that Gilbert had come to despise. 

_Can I go home?_

_Not yet._  

Not yet, not yet, not yet. Gilbert had started to believe in the 1970s that was code for 'not ever.' But the change was afoot. Gilbert-no-longer-Prussia could still feel it in his bones, old nation bones not sure if turned mortal. Change was afoot, and finally, finally, confirmation was coming in the form of fucking hamburgers and a stupid-ass clown.

It wasn't _not yet_ anymore.

 _Soon_. 

# # #

_February, 1947_

The 25th of February, 1947 started off as any other day, with Gilbert waking up locked in his basement room.

For nearly two years, nothing had changed. All things considered, Gilbert had thought, things could have been far, far worse. He was still incredulous that it hadn't been, frankly.

Sure, if given his own free reign he wouldn't have spent most of his time in a plain, windowless room, but it could have been worse. He was let out for some time each day. He was given books to read, paper to write on, food to eat. Russia had been… civil.

The main thing about it, Gilbert mused, was that it was just _dull_. Dull and somewhat stress-inducing. _Far_ too much time to think. A holding pattern. The other shoe would drop, Gilbert was sure of it.

On the 25th of February, Gilbert opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling and knew. He just… _knew._  

Something terrible had happened. A faint nausea rose from within, and it felt like every hair was standing on end.

Something… something…

A breath-- _a breath--_

No. _No_.

He sat up, purposefully slowly, and let his fingers curl against the side of the cot, breathing sharply and evenly, trying to _think_.

Where was he?

In Russia's basement.

Who was he?

Gilbert Beilschmidt.

Wasn't there something else?

There was something else. But Gilbert couldn't _remember_ \-- 

It was difficult to think, when every beat of his heart sent another wash of fear through him, as if his heart splashed not in mortal blood but in _emotion_ \--

Was he mortal?

Disorientation added to the fear, and Gilbert simply gripped the edge of the cot, trying to ride through this, whatever _this_ was--

 _What is my name_ \--?

Some indeterminable amount of time later, the door at the top of the stairs swung open, and Gilbert's head shot up. 

"Come out," Russia ordered, and Gilbert could hear footsteps retreating away. Gilbert gulped in air, stood up, brushed his hair back, and stepped forward, climbing meticulously up the stairs, each creaky step, until he emerged.

The door to the basement room led up to the kitchen, which currently smelled of the tea Russia perpetually was making when he wasn't drinking vodka. There was, of course, a bottle of vodka sitting on the table with a single shot glass. Russia was busy setting up the samovar.

"Sit," Russia said, pointing to the kitchen table. Gilbert looked at him for a moment, and then sat, the fear starting to rise in his throat, again, hard enough to choke.

_What is my name--?_

Russia sat down at the table with a delicate tea bowl, patterned with pink and yellow flowers on scalloped porcelain.

"The vodka is for you," Russia said, reaching forward to take the thin, delicate sugar bowl with the gold-carved handles and the tiny silver spoon.

Gilbert had his hands resting in his lap, and his eyes flicked over to the full bottle of vodka with the single shot glass. "I don't want it," he intoned flatly.  There was something, there was _something_ \--

Cool purple eyes moved from the delicate, elegant tea accoutrements that those brutal hands held so lightly up to Gilbert's face, and another sharp lance of debilitating fear as the wind blew, the door creaked on its hinges and _somebody was screaming in Königsberg--_

"Drink," the Russian ordered, the syllable as inarguable as a dropped bomb.

Gilbert swallowed, eyes shifting back over to the vodka bottle before reaching out to undo the cap. He poured the shot full, reached forward, and down the hatch it went, burning liquid.

"Again," Russia said, amusement in those purple eyes as he lifted the scalloped teacup to chapped lips.

"I don't--"

" _Again_."

Gilbert poured another shot. And another. And another. And another. 

Five shots later, and Gilbert thought he was going to vomit, but Russia allowed him to stop. Not having eaten since the day prior, the world was starting to spin.

Twinned Russias lifted twinned teacups to their mouths, and Gilbert grabbed the edge of the table to keep from falling off the surface of the earth. "You've been dissolved," the Russian twins said in unison.

"What?" Gilbert asked stupidly.

Twinned Russias chuckled. "Drink," the voice said, amused.

Gilbert shook his head, afraid, disoriented, and _what_. "No, I can't--"

"I tire of repeating myself," twinned Russias said, completely disregarding the irony of Gilbert's double-vision. 

Shakily, Gilbert poured another shot and down the hatch it went, like poison. Gilbert's stomach roiled. 

"Prussia is no more," Russia went on, and Gilbert could have been sick.

 _That is my name_ \--

But it wasn't. It no longer existed. 

As Gilbert floated in a vodka-soaked ether, twinned Russias hummed and leaned back in their chairs. "This wasn't my idea, of course," he said idly. "My boss actually wanted to keep you around, but he was overruled." Twinned Russias raised twinned shoulders in a twinned indifferent shrug.

Gilbert's eyes floated up like bubbles in champagne: aimless and buried in alcohol.

Twinned Russias chuckled, and Gilbert leaned back in his chair when they stood and walked around the table, his neck tipped up and up and up at the twinned mountain of Red Army might before him and then fingers in his hair trapped him there, neck exposed, mouth slung half-open-- 

Twinned Russias lifted twinned bottles of vodka but only one bottleneck was shoved down Gilbert's throat and he gagged as hot, burning liquid drowned him and he swallowed, he swallowed, it spilled--

The chair was kicked out from under him and Gilbert sprawled on the floor, choking and stinking of vodka.

"Of course, now that you no longer exist," Russia's voice said, coming from above, from everywhere, echoing from far away, "there was the slight issue of what, exactly, to do with you."

Gilbert's eyes rolled open absently, but the world had been reduced to sickening blurs and a voice. There was odd silence for a moment.

"This also wasn't my choice," Russia said, and Gilbert was confused; it sounded like regret. "But I am sure you, of all people, will understand the necessity of following orders."

Movement, then: Gilbert couldn't see, but he could _feel_ a tug around his neck, somebody removing a necklace, something being--

"No!" A single syllable, but legible, clear - Gilbert's hand shot out and though he could see nothing, the hand found its target… the smoothed over points of an iron cross that was _not_ to be taken from him, was _not_ \-- 

Lips, low, against his ear. "I will hold it for you until you return." 

Before Gilbert could even begin to process that in his sodden state, other voices entered the room, not familiar ones, rough hands, rough hands around his arms, dragging - Gilbert kicked, his heel landed in something soft--

Somebody backhanded him and out the lights went. 

He awoke later and the floor was moving, covered in vomit; a small cell, no light, hard floors, a headache like an ice pick lodged in the back of his skull. A vague memory made him put his hand to his throat: no necklace.

The Black Maria ambled on, and Gilbert gave himself to darkness once more.

# # #

_October, 1949_

"I'm not interested."

"Germany--"

"America."

Germany found it was easier to be assertive with America when he wasn't looking at him, so he was studiously staring out the window down at the street below.  

"Germany." 

Germany's eyebrows twitched. "America," he responded, voice flat and banal. This was childish, but it was _far_ better than the situation at hand.

"If you're not there, it's going to make all of us look bad, _including you_." America's voice was getting tight with frustration. "There's no reason not to go."

"There's plenty of reason not to go," Germany said. "I have no desire to meet… whomever this is." His arms crossed.

America, uncharacteristically, was silent for a few moments. Germany's eyes flicked up the window where he could make out America's blurry reflection: the other nation was looking off to the side, his hands shoved in his pockets.

"You say he's still alive," America said slowly.

There was only one 'he.' Germany's mouth worked. "He is," Germany affirmed quietly. Dissolved, maybe, but Germany could sense that heart still beating. He _knew_.

Germany didn't want to meet this so-called German Democratic Republic. He didn't want to see what Russia had done, he didn't want--

"The… Soviet Occupation Zone…" America started off, still slowly, his eyes floating over to catch Germany's in the window reflection, "…isn't him." 

Germany turned around. "What?"

"Prussia," America said bluntly. "Ex-Prussia. The new representative of the Soviet Occupation Zone isn't him." He cleared his throat. "I've seen… her."

" _Her_ ," Germany said flatly, turning around. "This so-called German Democratic Republic is a _her_." 

America nodded, expression troubled. "And it's not… I can tell it's not a reincarnation of Prussia or whatever. It's a completely new representation. A child."

Germany fixed America with a blank stare while he processed this. "A child." 

America nodded. "Yes." He reached up and pushed his glasses up his nose. "One that doesn't look a thing like Prussia did."

"So where _is_ he?" Germany asked, bracing his hands against the table. "I know he's alive, I _know it_."

A troubled look crossed America's features again. "Germany, I have no fuckin' idea. It's not as if Ivan tells me shit, and, to be honest, the whereabouts of an ex-country are not at the top of my current list of pressing worries." He took a breath and shook his head. "If you say he's alive, he's alive. Nobody would know better than you. _However_ , there's nothing anybody can _do_ about it at the moment so would you _please_ come help me the fuck out here before I have to order you to do it like a total asshole?"

Germany snorted. "Threatening to order me if I don't do it of my own volition doesn't exactly give me a lot of freedom of choice." His voice was softer, though, and he sighed.

"No, but it makes me feel better about myself," America said with a crisp nod, tipping his lip up at him. "Look. It'll just be you and her in the room. Expect the whole thing will be bugged and videotaped."

"I don't understand the point of putting us both in a cage to be examined like zoo creatures," Germany muttered. "What are you expecting us to do, circus tricks?"

America hummed, tipping his head. "Not exactly," he said slowly, looking over at him with an expression that told Germany America had more information that he was letting on. "There's mutual curiosity as to how you'll react to each other, mostly."

So both America and Russia wanted to stick Germany and whoever-this-was in a viewing pen so both could better play their own chess game of West-vs-East. "Of course," Germany said stiffly. 

America sighed. "Humor me," he said, as if Germany had any real choice in the matter. "Come on." 

" _Now_?" Germany said, leaning back, eyes widening. "She's here _now_?"

"Yes, she's here now," America said, turning around and motioning Germany to follow him. "I didn't want to give you time to figure out how to use bureaucracy to make you too busy for the meeting."

On one hand, Germany was nailed to the spot with indignation, and on the other hand he was privately impressed. For a moment he clenched his fists helplessly before loosening them and obediently following America down the hall to one of the other offices.

America opened the door. "Not in here yet," he said with a shrug, motioning Germany inside. "Go on. I'll make it up to you later with real coffee and not-shitty beer."

Germany snorted. "Your idea of not-shitty beer isn't exactly--"

"Fuck off," America said cheerfully, before shutting the door in Germany's face, making Germany chuckle low in his throat. He was in the office of one of the secretaries: small, with two chairs in the room. One of the chairs was behind the desk and it seemed far too intrusive to sit at somebody else's desk, so he sat in the other one.

Five minutes passed. Ten.

Finally, the door opened, and Germany's head turned to see--

Himself. 

No. Wait. Incredulity filled him, and he had to rub his eyes. All right. It wasn't himself. Not exactly.

Before him was a young female, perhaps seven in human appearance, clearly a nation - he could sense it - staring as boldly at him as he at her. Dressed in a plain blue frock most would have glanced over her but for the golden blonde hair pulled back rather severely in a tight plait, the ice blue eyes, the broad shoulders-- 

Germany did vaguely remember what he looked like as a youth - he'd spent plenty of time frowning at his reflection. This girl could have been that young boy's fraternal twin.

"…hello," he said, once he managed to locate his vocabulary again.

 _Hello_ , his identical-girl-twin visage said, in Russian. 

"…don't you speak German?" Germany asked, a bit affronted despite himself.

The girl opened her mouth and then closed it, blue eyes darting around the room as if looking for something.

She knows the room is bugged, Germany realized. There was a few moments pause, while Germany tried to figure this out. Is she _not_ supposed to know German? 

How does _that_ make any sense? Germany wondered. 

 _So you speak Russian_ , Germany said carefully, switching over.

 _Yes_ , the girl said, nodding, the relief clear in her voice.

…now Germany was irritated for an entirely different reason. _But you're German_ , he went on. _You don't speak the language of your people?_

The girl nodded. _I'm Soviet,_ she said, a childish note of pride in her voice. With a little smile, she started to rock back and forth from her heels to her toes and back.

This… was confusing. Germany nodded slowly. _I see_ , Germany said, though he most certainly didn't and was going to need a _lot_ of time to think about this. _What's… what's your name?_

 _The German Democratic Republic_ , the girl replied, another smile lighting up her face.

She was indeed a very pretty child, but there was something _off_ about all of this. Germany nodded. _I'm the Federal Republic of Germany_ , he said. _Ludwig Beilschmidt. Do you have a human name?_

The girl nodded again. _Veronika,_ she said. 

…okay, a name that could either be German or Russian. Interesting. He nodded in response. _Do you have a surname?_

The girl looked at him, and stopped her rocking.

_"Name," the white-haired red-eyed giant asked - demanded - in the terrifying hall as Ludwig looked up and up and up into silks and brocade and a human-god of unimaginable power with the blood-well eyes._

_"L-Ludwig," the child had said, barely able to get the syllables out, neck tipped back and shoulders hunching up in intimidation. Of all the states to pledge their allegiance, Prussia was by far the most frightening._

_"Hm," Prussia had said, seemingly unimpressed. "Surname?"_

_There wasn't one. The child stared, mute._

_"Just Ludwig?"_

_The child looked down, and winced when the blade came up, an insistent pressure beneath his chin, forcing his head back up to meet those demon-eyes… which had softened into something like amusement._

_"You can't go through life with just a Christian name," the demon-Prussia said, the amusement in his eyes bleeding into his voice. "You'll need a house name to go with it. Beilschmidt. There. Say your name."_

_Ludwig Beilschmidt swallowed. "Ludwig Beilschmidt," he repeated obediently, his eyes darting off to the side nervously before he dare question the demon. "But I haven't a house."_

_Prussia laughed and lowered the blade. "You just stepped into the awesomeness of mine. Prussia at your service, Gilbert Beilschmidt."_

Now, Germany looked down at the blond-haired child before him.

"Beilschmidt," he said, looking down with conviction.

Veronika looked up, strangely motionless.

It almost felt like an incantation. A name. The gift of a name.

"Your name," he said, and there was a strange feeling of finality in the air, "is Veronika Beilschmidt."

The little girl blinked, but before she could speak the door opened. _Veronika, come here_ , a voice ordered crisply and Veronika gasped. A blonde-headed blur quickly left the room.

Germany was left staring at the closed door for another few moments before it opened once more, admitting America. Germany stared at him and opened his mouth, before America quickly put a finger over his lips and motioned him out.

Oh, right. The room was bugged. Germany stood and followed America back into his own office.

"You're sure it's not bugged here?" Germany said, voice a little tight.

"It's not," America said, shaking his head. "We checked."

There was silence for a moment. "What was _that_?" Germany asked, voice low, trying to control it from shaking.

America raised an eyebrow. "You tell me."

" _That_ is a puppet state," Germany bit out. 

America, at this point, was grinning, in sharp opposition to Germany's ire. "A puppet state that you just gave your own name to."

Germany's eyes flicked up. "She had to have something that isn't Soviet," Germany grumbled. It figured, though. The best way to put America in a good mood was to thumb one's nose at the Soviet Union.

"You can help her," America said with an encouraging nod. "And him."

Germany was quiet for a moment, looking to the side in thought. "You wanted me to meet her because you knew it would upset me," he said.

"I can order you around all night and day if I wanted to," America said with a shrug, still grinning. "But it's less work to light a fire under your ass."

Germany's gaze shifted back to America. "You're more manipulative than anybody gives you credit for," he said.

The corner of America's mouth wobbled in amusement before he turned for the door. "Stick with me, kid, we're goin' places," he said with a put-upon Texan drawl before disappearing out the door.

# # # 

THE FIRST MCDONALDS IN RUSSIA: In April of 1988, the communist government allowed the McDonalds Corporation to open its first franchise in the Soviet Union, in Pushkin Square, Moscow. It didn't open until 1990, and it took about 14 years of negotiations to do. At the time of its opening it was the biggest in the world, and the day it opened it served over 30,000 customers. It is still the busiest McDonalds in the world.

THE DISSOLUTION OF PRUSSIA: On February 25, 1947, the Allied Council dissolved Prussia. The officially stated reasons for dissolution were due to Prussia's 'military influence' on German culture. Winston Churchill delivered a speech about 'Nazi Tyranny and Prussian Militarism' basically equating the two. In the aftermath of WWII, the Allied Council decided that it was in the world's best interest for Prussia to be no more, and thus dissolved it. (Russia was the one member of the Allies that actually vaguely advocated for it not to be dissolved, since it had overall quite fond historical relationships with Prussia. However, Russia was overruled by the other Allies and it wasn't in Russia's interest enough to drive a hard bargain over.) This resulted in mass expulsion of settled peoples that were supposed to be resettled 'humanely' but… weren't.  

Outside of the militarism reasons… Prussia as a state was not practical for the Cold War era, as it couldn't be neatly divided between the occupation zones due to its location and size.

THE BLACK MARIAS: 'Black Marias' (also called 'Black Ravens') were specially-designed vehicles that transported gulag inmates. They had individual cells inside and were designed to look like normal delivery vehicles.

EAST GERMANY: I have elected to make East Germany a separate character from Prussia since it… makes more sense to me. I know in the anime it's heavily implied that the Germany character becomes West Germany and the Prussia character becomes East Germany, but Prussia/East Germany aren't the same landmass and I wanted to try something a bit different.

Also, obviously, they spoke German in East Germany, and the Veronika character also speaks/understands German perfectly fine. Be patient with me; I'm developing her.

MY GOD, HELP ME TO SURVIVE THIS DEADLY LOVE: Name for this story is from the famous painting on the Berlin Wall depicting the 'fraternal kiss' between Brezhnev and Honecker.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1953\. 1961. 1963. Gilbert is a prisoner, not a priest, and remembers exactly why. East Germany watches one of the first immortalize himself as the wall jumper. West Germany has a massive collection of beer glasses, a new treaty with France, and the realization that he would have been better off as a tantric master.

Note: Both East Germany and West Germany call themselves 'Germany' in this. It should be obvious which one is which, however.

 # # #

_July, 1953_

Everything smelled like shit. Shit and coal, but mostly shit.

Gilbert stared up at the flat gray blackness of the ceiling above him, tracing the scratches and cracks in the unforgiving concrete over and over again, wondering if it was going to be his mind or his body that would give out first.

It had been six days. Six days with no food, only water. If there were any small consolations to be had, it was obvious that those in the barracks were having the same issues: he could hear the weeping and wailing outside, occasionally overcut by guttural Russian commands to _shut up, now!_ and sickening crack of rifle butt on skin. Muslims were praying. Everybody was starving.

Gilbert was starving too, but it appeared that even though he'd been stripped of his nation status officially, his flesh hadn't given way to mortality. So, unlike the other unfortunate masses, he didn't have to worry about the lack of food killing him.

However, unlike the masses, there would be no sweet kiss of darkness, either. The prison stank of death and desperation; he could hear adjacent cell doors opening and the telltale sound of corpses being pulled by their desiccated limbs to nameless graveyards. The mines were pits of hell: black, choked with dust, steaming hot, anguished screams of weakened prisoners collapsing under two-ton cars of slate, failing to make quota.

No food. No hope.

A fly buzzed in the window, and Gilbert's eyes watched it loop round and round; it landed on his nose, but his body was too weak to attempt waving it off. His eyes fluttered shut as he lay motionless on the wooden-plank bed, trying not to breathe so much as to save the calories.

What may have been worse was the isolation. For the past _five years_ , when not summoned to do the 3 kilometer walk to the mines, when not laboring far past the breaking point to fail quota once again and lose bread, he had been in here.

Alone, with only stifling hot or frigid cold as his company.

This tended to do things to a person; were he entirely human, Gilbert suspected he would have literally gone out of his mind by now. His eyes fluttered closed as the fly took off again, uninterested in the living corpse below it.

The door opened.

Gilbert's eyes popped open, a vague questioning feeling inside of him that _may_ have been hope arising, maybe it was _bread_ \--

No. It was a guard, shoving a bone-thin young man into the cell so hard that the young man collapsed onto his front. Red blood seeped from his nose, and his eyes lolled aimlessly; Gilbert certainly knew the look of the freshly-beaten when he saw it.

The guard looked at Gilbert's body, lying as still on the wooden shelf as a cadaver might in a lab, snorted, and shut the door again. The lock clanked.

Once the guard's footsteps had retreated down the hall, the thin young man started to weep, clearly more noise than anything else as he was likely too dehydrated for tears.

 _What did you do_ , Gilbert rasped to the air in Russian. In other circumstances he might have been more excited to have _somebody in the cell with him_ after so long, but his body was so low on energy it was impossible.

The young man didn't answer, simply continuing to make muffled, dry sobbing noises on the ground.

In another life, Gilbert may have been irritated, but instead he just let his eyes flicker closed, unwilling to expend more energy before-- 

A distant feeling flickered inside of him, like a flame he'd forgotten how to strike to life. His eyes snapped open again.

"You're German," he said, switching his language over accordingly, feeling mildly surprised.

The hunch was correct. Abruptly, the sobbing from the ground stopped. "Y-yes," the young man said. There was some shifting on the ground - Gilbert turned his head to see the boy painfully drag himself from the floor and over to the wooden shelf where Gilbert lay. Blood still oozed from his nose. "Y-you are too? W-where are you from?"

Gilbert let his lip twitch up as he looked the other over - the boy in front of him may have been hale and handsome in another, less cruel life; pale skin, a frame that would have held muscle nicely was there any way to affix it, blue eyes, blond hair.

"The Volga region, originally," Gilbert rumbled, learning long ago it was better to have a cover story as to why he spoke both Russian and German so well. "Ereymentau, after the expulsion. But that…" Gilbert's lips tipped up, though not much humor could be summoned, "…apparently wasn't remote enough."

The boy nodded slowly. "I-I'm from Speyer," he said, almost apologetically. "It's near--"

"Mannheim, on the Rhine," Gilbert said, the tip of his mouth tipping up in _actual_ amusement this time. "Old Roman city. Big cathedral." It may have been the starvation and weakness and depression, but the more he stared at the boy in front of him, the more he saw-- "You… you look like my brother," he said quietly. Seemingly of its own volition, Gilbert slowly lifted a hand and reached it out, as if to brush fingers over the boy's cheek, but remembered himself at the last minute and let the hand drop.

The boy looked a bit surprised at Gilbert's rather in-depth report on his hometown despite theoretically not even being from the country, but was obviously derailed when Gilbert reached out for him. When Gilbert's hand dropped, he felt the boy's thin hand reach out and twine fingers with him, desperately seeking contact.

"Can I lie with you?" the boy asked in a low whisper, blue eyes on the ground like a whipped cur. He _did_ look like West… and Gilbert couldn't stand him looking like that, beaten and starved, pathetic and desperate, shamed.

It was one thing to deal with it himself. It was another entirely to see it on his brother's visage. "Yes," Gilbert said, and shifted over on the wooden plank minutely to make room for the boy; the other had to try a few times before managing to get on. It was technically too hot for this, but Gilbert didn't care.

The boy rolled on his side, leaning toward Gilbert's body like a plant might toward the sun. "I… I was in the army," he said, voice low. "F-first I was in the regular… prisoner of war camps but… I don't know… I think… there must have been a mistake… and… I don't speak Russian very well… they ask me questions I don't understand and beat me…"

Gilbert nodded slowly. "They… would beat you anyway, whether you understood Russian or not," he said quietly. "I can hear them when they come through the cells… they ask about people nobody's ever heard of, or where a guard's sugar rations are located… nobody knows the answers. It's an excuse." This was true, if nothing else. Cruelty rarely had much logic behind it other than its own continued existence.

The boy was clearly trying not to cry: Gilbert watched as West's helpless blue eyes squeezed shut and a clear line of snot fell from a nostril to drip on the plank. Exactly like West, this boy was a horrifically ugly crier. "I want to go home," he managed to say, voice tight, tears starting to leak from tightly-closed eyes. "I miss my mother, I'm scared, I want to go home."

Gilbert was almost wishing for his solitude back, because this was too much to bear. Summoning up an almost unheard-of amount of energy, Gilbert reached out and tugged the boy's head against his threadbare shirt, pressing his lips down against the crown of his head; the boy lost it and started to sob, open mouthed, into Gilbert's chest. Gilbert muffled the noise as much as he could, one hand cradling short, dirty-blond hair. If it had been a century prior, Gilbert could have offered a strong, competent body to lean against; now, much like that mighty kingdom, he was merely a sack of bones and dust.

Though, the Gilbert of a century ago probably wouldn't have put up with a strange boy crying with abandon into his chest; he hardly ever put up with crying of any sort from West, which he was beginning to regret. Hell, he'd put up with all sorts of untoward displays if he could only--

No, no, no sense in that. Gilbert's fingers started to move slowly through the boy's hair, stroking and rocking in the thick summer heat until the boy in his arms went limp with exhaustion. Gilbert could feel the boy's muscles trembling helplessly, unable to move.

"Shh, shh," Gilbert intoned quietly, once the sobbing had died off. "Shhh…"

A few ragged gasps of air later: "I'm sorry." Miserable, contrite, ashamed.

"It's all right," Gilbert said quietly to his brother's child. "I'd cry too if I had the energy." This wasn't untrue. He stroked the back of the boy's hair thoughtfully for a moment. "Would you like to learn Russian?"

The boy tipped his head back slightly and looked up. "…Russian?"

Gilbert nodded, looking down into red-rimmed blue eyes. "…it could help, and… give us something to do. Hm?" One of his thin, long, pale fingers traced the boy's cheek, wiping some wetness away.

The boy looked to the side, and then nodded. "A-all right?"

Gilbert hummed. No better way to stop a crying child than a distraction: this had been a cornerstone with West when the other was too young to take orders. " _Kak tebe zavout? Mena zavout_ \--" here, he pointed to himself, "Gilbert Beilschmidt."

While the boy's eyes were blank through the actual Russian, the meaning of the sentence was obvious. " _Zdrastvoytse, Herr Beilschmidt_ ," the boy said bashfully, with a terribly thick accent.

Gilbert's lip twinged in amusement. " _Nyet, nyet, 'Herr Beilschmidt' pa-Nimenski. Prosta 'Gilbert' narmalna. Kak tebe zavout?_ "

Blank look. Gilbert pointed to himself meaningfully again. " _Mena. Zavout._ Gilbert Beilschmidt." He pointed to the boy. " _Kak. Tebe. Zavout_?"

The boy pointed to himself. "Bernd Ditzen. …Bernd, _pahjaulsta_."

Gilbert hummed approvingly and ran a hand through Bernd's hair; Bernd leaned into it as easily as West ever had, clearly as desperate for kind touch as Gilbert was pleased to give it. " _Harasho. Ladna, issho rass. Kak tebe zavout?_ "

Bernd's eyes twisted to the side in thought. "… _kak tebe zavout…_ " he said thoughtfully, as if pondering deep thoughts.

…Gilbert almost snickered, and shook his head, pointing to himself. " _Kak_ vas _zavout_ ," he corrected.

" _Vas?"_

" _Vas."_

 _"…vas?_ "

Gilbert couldn't help it - he laughed. Bernd flushed red, but a smile managed to bend his mouth sheepishly.

# # #

"They are going to kill us."

Bernd's voice was quiet as he sat huddled next to Gilbert, like he always did, despite the heat. It had been six long days since Bernd had joined Gilbert in his cell, and no food had come until the sixth day. Bernd had been getting weaker and weaker, and Gilbert was becoming seriously worried that his partner was about to be a rotting corpse, but after six days of silence a guard had walked in, not only with the normal bucket of water but with two glorious slices of bread.

Gilbert was slowly demolishing the bread crumb by crumb, as was Bernd. "What makes you say that?" he asked calmly.

Bernd's blue eyes flicked over. "They haven't taken us to the mines in days."

This… was true. In addition to the lack of rations, there had been a bizarre lack of _work_ since Bernd had joined him in the cell. Normally Gilbert would have found the solitude for so long excruciating, but with Bernd it had been… almost enjoyable. The boy was certainly affectionate, and the Russian lessons helped pass the time.

"If they were going to kill us, it would be an odd time to start wasting bread on us," Gilbert pointed out, pinching off another rough crumb delicately. "Stop worrying. If it's going to happen, it will… we may as well enjoy our bread."

The verb 'enjoy' may have been a bit strong for what tasted like compressed sawdust, but it was better than nothing. Far better.

Bernd looked down, quiet, and the silence reigned for some time. "There's something I've never told anybody," he started, haltingly, abruptly.

Gilbert's eyes turned over to his companion's. "Whatever it is, it's not likely to surprise me," he intoned. Which was true.

Bernd's mouth worked, and his eyes riveted to the floor. "I wish you were a priest," he said after a moment.

 _If only you knew_ , Gilbert thought wryly. "You wish to confess?" It wasn't exactly a secret at this point that Bernd was a Catholic; he would recite on an imaginary rosary at least once per day.

The boy nodded. "I-I think they're going to kill us," he repeated, eyes low, voice meek. "I… don't think they'll have a priest…"

"Very likely not, if they decide to take us out to the yard and shoot us," Gilbert said, a bit dry. Bernd appeared to shrink a little, so he closed his eyes and sighed. "…and I said, 'O my God, I am ashamed and embarrassed to lift up my face to You, my God, for our iniquities have risen above our heads and our guilt has grown even to the heavens.'"

Bernd looked up, and Gilbert was a little surprised to see tears already starting to form in his eyes. He moved a shaky hand in the shape of a cross. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was…" here, the boy's voice wobbled, "I… cannot remember, forgive me Father. More than five years ago." He took another breath: "I accuse myself of the following sins."

It had been far more than that for Gilbert, certainly. He nodded slowly, his attention drawn from the bread. The silence stretched out. Gilbert was silent.

"…fornication," Bernd said slowly. "I… I..." he looked over at Gilbert, clearly fearful, "I… consented to homosexual acts upon my person, because I could not stop them."

Gilbert sat up a little. "Bernd… being raped isn't a sin," he said slowly, carefully. The boy was trembling: he reached out a hand to carefully rest on Bernd's shoulder. "It's… happened to me before as well. More common than you'd think, especially in war." …to be fair, Gilbert had also committed his own fair share of rape himself, but that wouldn't be a relevant or helpful thing to say, here.

Bernd took in a shaky breath, and shook his head. "N-no, but, I found… I found pleasure in it," he said weakly, his voice the apex of shamed misery. "W-when we surrendered, near the end of the war… this… this Red Army officer… he took myself and my friend into the forest, he beat us… he… he… made us both… aroused--" Bernd's voice was so thick with shame that Gilbert almost begged him to stop talking, "--and… made us useourmouthstopleasurehim, indecent, and then--" tears, now, which Bernd desperately brushed away, "--we both… spilled our seed."

While Bernd was forcing himself through this terrible speech, something like static crackled through Gilbert's mind, a memory of fire and blood, of Russia's purple eyes: _I've become quite partial to your handsome, strong, blond-haired blue-eyed soldiers. Have I told you what I do to them?_

"--and he had these _eyes_ ," Bernd wept, covering his face. "So _cold_ , purple, like _ice_."

Oh, that _fucker_.

After a thick swallow, Gilbert put his bread slice down, and reached up, placing a hand between Bernd's shoulder blades and stroking slowly. When the boy didn't react poorly to the touch, Gilbert gently gave his shoulder a tug, an invitation to lean against him. Bernd accepted, crying into Gilbert's raggedly-clothed shoulder.

After a few moments of quiet sobbing, Bernd managed to get a hold on his voice enough to whisper, "I am sorry for these and all of my sins."

The words hung in the silence of the hot cell, and Gilbert closed his eyes and echoed the sentiment to an uncaring God he'd stopped believing in long ago.

"I absolve you," Gilbert said, voice very low, thin fingers brushing dirty blond hair back over and over.

Before Bernd had a chance to respond, a ruckus erupted in the hall, causing Gilbert to rise to his feet, reflexively scooping up his bread slice.

The door slammed open and it was _not_ a guard - three men dressed in prison uniforms appeared.

 _It's an uprising,_ one of them said, offering a snaggletooth grin. _Get out while you can_.

Gilbert's eyes widened as the prisoners padded away to pry open another door. He looked down at Bernd. "Uprising," he translated, as Bernd's Russian lessons hadn't stretched into insurrection yet.

"They'll shoot us," Bernd responded immediately, eyes _huge_.

"They'll shoot us even if we stay here if the door is open," Gilbert said, holding out a hand, which Bernd took. "Come on."

He tugged the boy down the familiar path to the work yards - where they would take Gilbert and the other prisoners before marching them to the mines - to see… a bunch of prisoners sitting around in the yard, with guards standing just outside the perimeter of the camp, smoking cigarettes.

"…this is the uprising?" Bernd asked, voice quiet from behind him. Gilbert agreed - it looked more like loafing around.

"They're refusing to do work," Gilbert muttered back. "That must be it."

For a few long moments, Gilbert and Bernd stood together, hands held, in the hot July sun steaming high over Vorkuta.

 _Fire!_ a voice suddenly yelled into the thick, hot silence, an angry roar.

Before Gilbert could think, he dropped as the air filled with bullets so thick it was as if locusts had descended on the camp, deadly bangs and buzzes thudding into flesh and _pinging_ off metal and thumping into the scorched earth. As soon as the first gunshots rifled into the air, screams blossomed in their wake.

It took a few seconds to process what was going on… a few seconds to notice that Bernd was lying slumped over next to him, as unresponsive as a sack of coal and with the back of his skull entirely missing: hot brains and blood painted the ground below him.

Inmates were falling, and the death toll started to scent the air thick with the stench of old iron. Gilbert stared mutely at the death mask before him, the boy's face at peace despite still being warm with tears: the hand Gilbert clutched was still pliable.

A lump hard in his throat, bullets still blazing overhead; Gilbert pulled a small smashed corner of bread from his pocket, and pushed it into Bernd's slack, still-wet mouth.

It took a few moments to get the words out. "May the Lord Jesus Christ protect you and lead you to eternal life," he croaked, inaudible against the backdrop of screams.

Not that Gilbert believed any of it. Not a damn word of it.

He had no idea how long he lay there on the ground, a shaking hand covering his face as he fought to swallow his sobs, but eventually the din silenced and he was roughly pulled from the ground by a guard - Gilbert hung limply, half-hoping he'd be shot.

 _You speak Russian_ , the guard said, brown eyes unemotional.

 _Yes, I speak Russian_ , Gilbert said wearily, his worn shoes standing in Bernd's brains.

 _You speak German_ , the guard continued, either unnoticing or uncaring that his own shoes were becoming covered in brain matter.

 _Yes, I speak German_ , Gilbert replied.

 _Both fluently,_ the guard said.

Gilbert nodded. _Volga German_ , he explained, not having it in him to say more than a few syllables at a time. He was empty.

The guard looked over Gilbert's head. _Take him_ , he ordered, and Gilbert found himself being shoved backward into the arms of another guard, and marched away. Gilbert was half-expecting to be shot for the crime of being bilingual, but, no, a Black Maria waited out front.

After he had been marched in and deposited in one of the cells, Gilbert slumped against one of the walls of the automobile, dropped his head into his hands, and wept.

# # #

_August, 1961_

Veronika Beilschmidt, the German Democratic Republic, the East, felt that she had far too many names and not nearly enough bottles in her cart.

Plodding along Bernauer Straße, she looked upward, trying to figure out which of the buildings hadn't been bricked up and evacuated yet. Most of the other Young Pioneers avoided this street; it was becoming more and more fruitless as her people were being expelled from the buildings directly adjacent the what-will-be-Wall, but Germany figured that she'd hit a recycling jackpot if one of the citizens inside was an avid newspaper reader and hadn't been bombarded by other children yet.

Absently humming the first few bars of _Der Volkspolizist_ , she shaded her eyes and squinted upward, trying to figure out which of the windows didn't have wood blocking it.

The soon-to-be-and-much-maligned Wall sat innocently to her left as Germany peered upwards, at this point a mere tangle of barbed wire and scattered building materials guarded by bored state police. It was going to be a bit strange, Germany thought, having the view to the Other Side blocked by concrete and guard towers, but, as with many things, she'd been told it was necessary for her growth and not to worry her pretty head about it.

Germany wasn't so sure about how pretty her head was - she stared at her face each morning and was… never very happy about what she saw - but was definitely aware she needed to grow. A few years ago she'd met the Other, and he was terrifyingly hale and strong already, with hard blue eyes, severe jaw, and slicked back hair.

No wonder Nazism had built itself around _that_ forbidding façade. The Other had been a poster child for fascism, re-appropriated as the marionette of capitalism, and was not to be trusted. The Wall would keep him at bay until she grew. The Other wouldn't dare cross to violate her, and nor would his masters.

(His name had stuck, though. And his face was imprinted on her face: whenever she looked in the mirror she saw him, that forbidding jaw, those cold eyes…)

She had made it through the second verse of _Der Volkspolizist_ , when a sudden commotion up at the corner of Ruppiner Straße got her attention.

"Come over!" voices from the Other Side started to shout. "Come over!"

The last notes of the song dying in Germany's throat, she abandoned her half-full recycling cart to trot over, breaking into a quicker gait as that _something is happening now_ heavy-raincloud-nation-sense flooded her body as sure as her blood.

"Come over!" the voices said, and a police car drove up--

A flurry of movement, then, and Germany's attention snapped to it: a young border guard dropping a half-smoked cigarette and removing his submachine gun in a clatterflash of movement - it fell but did not go off, it was empty - pivoting swiftly, twisting, moving, _jumping_ \--

Germany watched him take flight as if in slow motion (a flash went off, the flash of a camera bulb) and a quick breath escaped her at the sharp tug inside, the sharp tug of a loss--

 _You will regret this_ , she thought, eyes following her ex-citizen as he ran away, ran away from _her_ , ran into the police car--

"Come over!"

People on both sides of the Wall were shocked still by the sudden defection, staring as the police car pulled away into the glaring summer daylight--

"Come over!"

But the traitor had already turned! Germany thought, eyes darting up and down the future protective barrier, trying to figure out _who else_ was cowardly enough to run--

"Beilschmidt!"

Germany knew she had too many names, but _that one_ \-- Involuntarily, her head snapped over to see _him_ , the Other, still approaching the wall though the confusion was getting louder and any minute now the guards would start shooting. _What was he doing here, what was--_

"Come over!" in the confusion, the Other stepped forward, and - in sharp dissonance with those cold fascist eyes and hard forbidding jaw - he dropped a knee, his arms opened--

Two stutter steps forward--

 _No_.

Leaving the half-full cart of recycling behind, Germany ran away down Ruppiner Straße.

She would never approach the Wall so closely again.

# # #

_January, 1963_

Nobody was ever going to accuse the Federal Republic of Germany of being too good at reading people, but with some individuals it was obvious. Like France. France was very obvious.

As was becoming routine these days, France had invited Germany to join his boss at the signing of the Elysee Treaty, and Germany had respectfully declined. While declining such invitations often put nations off, at least Germany could stand behind his uniform commitment: _I'm not leaving home until my brother finds it_. He hadn't gone to America's, he hadn't gone to England's, he hadn't gone to Italy's, he hadn't gone _anywhere_.

Childish, maybe, but Germany _knew_ that the moment Prussia put foot on his soil, he would know. It could happen at any moment. He didn't want to waste precious time slacking off at the Hôtel de Marigny.

…another, far better-hid worry was fear. He… wasn't sure when he'd want to go back to Paris. He wasn't sure when he'd want to go back to London. The idea of being away from home and from protection was frightening, frankly.

Not that he _really_ thought anybody would cause him harm - it wouldn't be good politically and Germany was sure America would take serious umbrage - but treaty-signings usually meant treaty _sex_ , and to say that Germany was hesitant about the prospect with France was an understatement.

After the second war France had been very restrained, but memories after the first war still - literally - haunted his nightmares. Childish, maybe, but _no thank you_.

Of course, when France had shown up _at_ _his apartment_ with a bouquet of yellow roses, a bag of groceries, and a dazzling smile, Germany's tongue promptly cleaved to the roof of his mouth and he wasn't able to think fast enough to figure out how to get the other nation to go away in a diplomatic manner.

"How did you find out where I live?" Germany asked, closing the door to his apartment behind him as France floated into his kitchen.

"Ah, but Monsuier Adenauer was more than happy to give me the address so I could personally deliver a token of friendship," France said, aiming another smile over at Germany, his long blonde hair framing his face and making him look as though he were personally ripped from an edition of _Vogue_. "I certainly didn't want to miss out on the chance to celebrate our new union, non?"

Despite the fact that the words were said without a drop of discernible malice or even double-entendre, Germany felt all the blood rush from his face and his pulse accelerate slightly. Something quick flashed over France's face: a look of understanding, almost.

"Do you have a vase?" France asked, voice a little slower and less-floaty. He raised an eyebrow. "For the flowers, I mean?"

A hard swallow later, and Germany relocated his words. "No, I… don't typically keep fresh flowers in the apartment." While Germany did have his merits, he was definitely not a green thumb, particularly not for ornamental flowers.

France hummed. "Well, you should certainly reconsider," he said, putting the flowers and the bag of groceries down on the kitchen table like he owned the place. "I find fresh flowers do add a certain amount of… charm and freshness. I guarantee that once you enjoy these for a week, you'll want more." He looked down thoughtfully at the flowers. "How about a beer glass, then?" He offered a small smile that was… far less overwhelming than his normal variety. "That would work for a vase."

Germany nodded slowly. "Yes, I… of course." Carefully, he stepped around France and went to the large cupboard next to the refrigerator - it was as tall as the refrigerator and nearly as wide - revealing a smorgasbord of glassware.

France had been removing groceries from his bag, but his eyebrows raised. "My God," he said, abandoning the groceries. "Germany…" Germany's eyes moved to France's face as the other nation took in the massive collection. "All right, educate me. What sort of beer do you drink out of a champaign glass?"

Germany managed to deadpan despite himself. "That is a flute glass, and it enhances carbonation and releases volitiles for better aroma. Lagers, bocks, pilsners…"

"And this?" France asked, pulling out a thick chalice with a stubby stem.

"Chalice," Germany recited. "Maintains head, wide mouthed. Dubbels, Tripels…"

They went through Germany's extensive collection of pokals, pint glasses, snifters, stanges, tulips, and weizens before France pulled out the last remaining glass - a gigantic seidel with a huge handle hanging off the side.

"That," Germany said with a straight face, "holds a lot."

There was a pause, before France broke out into peals of laughter and Germany chuckled along with him.

"I'll go with the tulip," France said, replacing the seidel. "If I cut the stems down, the flowers will fit." After helping himself to said glass, he favored Germany with a small smile. "Shoo for now," he said. "I'll get dinner started and call you in for hors d'odurves and wine in a bit, all right. …you do have wine glasses too?"

Germany snorted. "Yes, of course I have wine glasses," he said, pointing to another cabinet. He paused. "You… don't need help?"

"I believe I can handle it," France said, waving him off.

Another pause, and Germany nodded, vacating the kitchen for the safety of his bedroom, where he took a few calming breaths and settled down to try and read - he knew he wouldn't get any work of worth done.

Soon, absolutely delicious smells started to fill the apartment, to the tune where Germany was mildly worried his neighbors might try and knock down the door to get at whatever France was concocting in there. After about 40 minutes he could take no more and returned to the kitchen, peering around the doorframe.

The table had been set with Germany's good china, with a sliced baguette, a bottle of red wine open to aerate, and a platter of pissaladieres was cooling atop the stove while a roast chicken and some heavenly-smelling vegetable soaked in a cream sauce baked within it. A platter of cheese was resting on the counter, covered with a tea towel.

France turned around, a bowl of batter in his hand. "Ah," he said. "I was just about to go get you for before-dinner drinks," France said - Germany saw two flute glasses with an amber liquid inside. "Have you ever had the pleasure of a Soixante Quinze?"

Germany shook his head while France put the batter down and reached for one of the glasses to offer him. "Ah, no?"

"You can hold your sauce, so you'll like it," France said with a smile, clinking glasses with Germany before Germany had the chance to initiate. "It's champagne and gin."

Germany nodded slowly, before taking a sip. Lemony, bubbly, alcoholic. All and all, not displeasing. "Thank you," Germany said slowly, still not entirely sure how to react to all this.

France motioned over to the pissaladieres. "Try one of those," he urged. "I think the pastry may have gotten a little overdone…"

Germany did as instructed, and, of course, the tarts were utterly perfect. After the last flake had dissolved on his tongue as easily as seraphim, Germany shook his head. "You… don't have anything to worry about," he said, reaching out for a second.

He could hear the grin in France's voice. "Good," France said quietly, and as the sun set over Berlin, he went to light some candles before going over to have one of his pissaladieres for himself.

Once Germany had gotten halfway through his drink - turned out it was stronger than it tasted - France spoke. "We're serious about this treaty, you know," he said after a moment.

Germany looked up. "I know," he responded.

France's bottle-blue eyes were more focused than normal. "We found your conditions for ratification interesting, though," he said, voice calm.

Germany took another slow sip. "It's in my best interest to keep as many people happy as possible," he said, warning signs starting to flash in his head but keeping his face smooth. "America said he wasn't happy that it didn't mention NATO, or Britain, or free trade accords."

"And if America isn't happy, nobody's happy," France said, voice a little dry as he shook his head. "You're not slightly upset about being treated as a vassal?"

Despite everything, Germany managed to shoot France an incredulous look - a timer went off, and France quickly turned around, removing the chicken (stuffed with lemon and herbs, roasted on a bed of potatoes) and what appeared to be fennel gratin. Germany was momentarily distracted by the food, because who _wouldn't_ be. "Not to be contrary, but I'm being _occupied_ right now," Germany pointed out, once he managed to gather his thoughts again. "By you, _and_ England, _and_ America. It hardly makes me a _vassal_ , but it does give me a specific list of concerns."

France sighed, removing the oven mitts. "I'm very well-aware," France said. "I meant more in a general, European sense. My boss is concerned that we're all - Europe as a whole - being bought and sold."

"Better bought by capitalism than sold to communism," Germany said, his thoughts floating to the little girl on the other side of the wall, before shaking his head to clear it. "I have a walking twin of myself on the other side of a wall not six miles from here, if I ever want to see what it's like at the bottom of the abyss."

That made France chuckle, and he motioned to the table, for Germany to sit. "Go ahead and pour the wine," he instructed, carefully moving the chicken and potatoes to a platter, and moving the fennel gratin to a trivet. "I'll be blunt. We have a better chance of _not_ being sold to communism and also _not_ being overrun by our dear American friend if we work together on things. What I _mean_ to say is that at this point, I realize I can't do it without you; you should know you can't do it without _me_."

After carefully pouring the wine, Germany eyed France as he brought the food to the table and put something else in the oven to bake. "I have no interest in distancing myself from America at this time," Germany said with a shrug. "That would be unwise."

France inclined his head as he put a napkin in his lap. " _At this time_ ," he repeated. "Last time I checked, time has a funny way of passing and of changing things. In preparation for the future, I would like to take the first steps toward reconciliation." Here, he paused to put some fennel gratin on his plate, before handing over the platter with trivet for Germany to take. "Or, at least, I'd like to assuage your concerns about outright sexual assault."

Germany nearly dropped the platter. "W-what?"

France's expression turned wry, and he held up a hand. "Trust me, I am fully aware of why you have those concerns." He reached forward to help himself to a chicken leg, sliding it on his plate. "To be fair, it's been a bit of give-and-take between us for a while, hasn't it?"

Germany managed to serve himself a portion of the gratin, but looked away.

There was a short pause. "It doesn't have to be like that," France said, voice uncharacteristically quiet and not-at-all-lewd. In fact, this entire conversation had been oddly serious. "I'd rather it not be. I'm tired of fighting you, as a nation, and as a person…" Here, France shrugged. "I don't want to hurt you if you don't want to hurt me."

Germany stared off to the side for a long moment. "I… am… very much done with that," he said quietly.

That caused France to smile and pick up his wine glass, motioning toward Germany in a toasting fashion. "Wonderful," he said, before taking a sip and turning his attention to the meal.

# # #

Unsurprisingly, everything France had cooked was fantastic - after the cheese course France had offered up freshly-baked pistachio financiers, which had gone down a treat with strong black coffee - and Germany felt like he probably could have rolled out the door after.

After a few moments to digest, France had started to clear the dishes, before Germany firmly interrupted him and sent him to the living room with an after-dinner drink while Germany cleaned up the mess.

Once the kitchen had been restored to its former pristine glory, he turned to find France walking back into the room with a now-empty collins glass, setting it beside the sink. Germany's head turned to the dirty glass, prepared to reach out to clean it, but stilled when he felt long, elegant fingers at his chin.

Germany's breath caught in his throat, and France leaned forward slightly to brush dry, soft lips against the corner of his mouth. "Is this all right?" France asked, voice low and calm. "If you say 'no,' I will stop."

His heart felt like it was dancing a messy polka, but Germany paused - really, France _had_ done nothing worthy of suspicion the entire evening and had even been talking sense for once - and nodded. "This is fine," he heard himself saying, earning a curved smile against his skin and another soft brush of lips.

"You _are_ very handsome," France went on, and Germany felt a blush start to spread across his cheekbones. "I've always thought so. Even when I hated you."

"…thanks?" Germany said, voice a little high pitched as thin fingers reached up to gently brush the slope of Germany's nose and to outline the cut of his jaw. "Y-you don't look bad yourself."

France really didn't. Long blond hair, beautiful deep eyes, long lashes, a willowy form that Germany knew from experience was as deadly as it was alluring. France also had an odd androgynous look about him that only he could pull off as effortlessly as he did.

His attempt at a compliment made France chuckle. "This is where you invite me to your bed," France nudged quietly. "And where I assure you I don't want to penetrate you and you'll keep your clothes on."

"…and we jointly edit my expense reports?" Germany asked.

France paused, and laughed, tipping his head back. "Hardly," he said, once he managed to get himself back under control. "I don't suppose that you know much about Tantra."

The sudden change in topic made Germany blink. "Yes, over the past 50 years, I've really put a lot of time into Tantric mastery."

France chuckled. "Well, considering what you've _actually_ been doing these past 50 years, it may have been a better use of your time."

This was not untrue, Germany mused. And that was depressing.

France, though, was still grinning. "Come on, I promise, you'll like it."

Germany took a step forward, but stalled. "What _is_ it?"

France grinned. " _I_ know a way that you can have multiple orgasms. Or, well, at least try to. Not everybody can. But I'm under the impression you spend a reasonable amount of time at the gym, so your muscles are probably in better shape than most. Or at least, you're a much better candidate for it than England is. Or you'll complain far less about trying." France rolled his eyes, indicating a long period of suffering.

Germany was already slightly flushed by the time that France was finished. "By doing what?"

France hummed, and Germany's eyes darted down as a long finger traced his jaw, then down over his Adam's apple, then down over his pectorals, down, down, down - stopping just above his groin.

"You've got some muscles here… they're the same ones you'd use if you needed to stop pissing, really… that, when you're really, really _really_ close to… your finish, you can clench them. If your muscles are strong enough… you'll get to experience a little death without ejaculating." France was really, very, very close, and his lithe body against Germany's wider, more muscular frame _did_ feel very, very good. "You do this a few times… and, supposedly, the end result is… breathtaking. Shall we try?"

"I… I…" Germany stuttered, his face fully flushed, "I… all right."

He was rewarded with soft lips against his own and softer hair brushing against his jawline - his hands braced against the counter behind him, focusing more on the sensation of _extremely_ talented lips upon his own, they were working his mouth like a sculptor's hands at clay. However, this was not acceptable, as soon he felt France's hands move to take Germany's wrists and reposition Germany's hands along France's sides.

Taking the cue, Germany used his large hands to stroke up France's slim sides - he was much more compact than America, England, or even Prussia - and France's hands kneaded delicately into Germany's pectorals, softening and warming the skin, causing the nipples to perk of their own accord.

Frankly, it felt like kissing on the cover of a romance novel, and Germany was not surprised.

After a few moments of this treatment, France pulled away. "Take me to bed," he instructed firmly.

"Ah," Germany said, a bit disoriented. "Okay." There was a pause. "It's… through the door," Germany said helpfully, pointing to the only door the kitchen had.

France let out a long, suffering sigh. "It's like you need a manual," he grumbled. " _Pick me up_ and _carry me to bed_ like this is something at least _slightly_ romantic, cabbagehead."

A manual would probably be quite helpful, since it was almost impossible to know what different nations actually _wanted_. Germany was reasonably sure that if he tried to pick up and carry America to bed, America would suplex him through the floor and into the downstairs apartment.  Germany sighed in response, and carefully picked France up, preparing to throw him over his shoulder--

" _What are you doing_?" France yelped, nearly thrown face-first into the counter behind Germany before Germany paused.

"Carrying you to bed?" What had he done wrong _now_?

" _Sacrebleu_ ," France said, rubbing his forehead like he'd just inherited a massive headache. "When you carry somebody off to bed, do you _always_ throw them over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes?"

"I've never carried anybody to bed before," Germany said, going for honesty.

France pinched the bridge of his nose. "I am going to put good faith in that you are not actually a caveman," he muttered. "You must carry me like a princess."

"A princess," Germany repeated, voice going a bit flat.

" _Yes_. You need to sweep me off my feet!" France accompanied this with a sweeping motion to illustrate. "Like Prince Charming does to the princess! Not like you are carrying me to the Red Cross tent for triage."

Germany managed to fix France with an incredulous look. "All… all right," Germany said, giving in and resituating France so that one hand was under France's knees and the other behind his back. "… better?"

France, now properly held, sighed and rolled his eyes. "Yes, but now that I had to give a step-by-step guide, it's lost its charm."

Germany, now given an apparent go-ahead to move, shook his head. "Romance is confusing," he muttered, clearing the distance between the kitchen and his bedroom in far less time than their argument about it had taken.

When he set France back on the bed, the amused look on his face had returned. "Lie down," France instructed. "Thank God, we're to the part where you don't have to do anything anymore."

"Thank God," Germany intoned dryly, shifting down on his back and fixing France with a careful look.

France settled down on his side and reached out, tracing Germany's jaw once more with a slim finger. "Turn on your side and face me," he instructed.

Germany obeyed, and was rewarded with a clever hand cupping his jaw and guiding him forward, back to be sampled and teased by that talented mouth. Privately more than content to hand over control in this manner - he did _not_ want to be mocked for his lack of skill again - he let France guide him through the motions, lips a gentle hot-wet slide against each other.

A hot flush erupted over Germany's face as he felt blunt fingernails gently tease against the nape of his neck - he looked up to see France sporting an unabashed grin.

"Sensitive, yes?" France said, not giving Germany a chance to respond as he went right back to whatever black magic he was working on Germany's lips, each gentle scrape against fine hairs at his nape sending shiver-shocks of pleasure through him like radar waves at point of contact.

"Very sensitive," France purred, once he'd broken for air. Germany licked kiss-swollen lips as his eyes flickered open to meet France's amused dark blue gaze: other than a pleased expression and a slight red flush on his face, France looked mostly unaffected. Germany was sure he looked absolutely ruined… or at least his face was hot enough to fry eggs on.

"If you like that," France went on, as Germany seemed to have nothing more to contribute to the conversation other than repressed panting, "I bet you'll like _this_ …"

"A- _ah_ …" Germany groaned, as those hands moved from his nape, trailed exposively-powerful soft fingers up his neck and his jaw - he had been sensitized - and gently flicked at earlobes.

Prior to this very moment Germany had no idea his ears were apparently an erogenous zone, but helpless feeling cut through him like electricity through a live wire and he bit his lip to keep quiet. France hummed, very obviously pleased, and traced his fingers lightly along the shells of both Germany's ears simoultaniously; Germany unconciously thrust his hips forward.

"Ah, youth," France said, voice low, amused, and very pleased. Before Germany had the chance to attempt a glare, France's body shifted slightly forward on the bed so that his pelvis pressed against Germany's, sending a far _sharper_ spike of pleasure through Germany's nervous system. Germany gasped, and France rolled his lower body against Germany's with a wicked grin, humming when Germany repaid the favor.

"It feels good, right?" France asked, fingers ghosting down the side of Germany's face, tipping his chin up.

Germany's eyes slit open. "Yes," he breathed, and was rewarded by a handsome smile and an even more insistent roll of hips against his.

France hummed. "Very good," he said, slim hips starting to piston regularly, a rhythm that Germany found very easy to match, sending bolts of sensation through him, constant and unassailable, dragging him to an inevitable--

"Remember to hold it in," France breathed against the shell of his ear, and that was _it_ , that hot-wet breath sent him over--

With a strangled noise, Germany tightened the muscles of his lower pelvis desperately, and was assailed by a strangled, pained spike of pleasure that was not as intense as a proper orgasm, but coaxed a thin, helpless noise from his throat nonetheless. France assisted by pressing up against him, giving a surface to _grind_ against _\--_

Germany _groaned_ , face painted as red as a rose, panting harshly. He could feel his cock still thumping full with blood, and it was an odd sensation as the last waves of tight pleasure washed over his body but still ready for more.

"…well done," France said, sounding positively _over the moon_. "All of that over-the-top discipline is apparently good for _something_."

Germany opened watery eyes and did not reply, trying to get his breathing under control as his pulse thudded in his brain.

"Let's try it again," France said, a bit breathless, starting to grind his hips back into Germany's, and a half-broken sound dropped from Germany's throat before he could stop it.

The second time around, colored stars exploded behind Germany's eyes like a holiday come early. Third time, he had to remember to start breathing again once the increasingly painful-pleasure died away.

"I can't," Germany groaned helplessly, once he managed to suck a lungful of air down, his nerve endings on _fire_ connected with the throbbing, unbearable mass of electric feeling that was his groin. "No more, I can't--"

"One more," France interrupted him, by this point bright red himself, his fingers warm, soft pads against Germany's stubble. "The last one. You can do it."

No, Germany thought, or tried to think, I really _can't_. This thought was chased out of his skull entirely when France's skilled hands reached for his waistband and carefully undid them; Germany moaned with relief when his aching cock was finally freed. With all the overwhelming stimulation, he hadn't noticed how confined he'd been.

"Come on," France coaxed quietly, as his hand slipped beneath the band of Germany's by-now-sopping-wet briefs, soft tips of his fingers caressing painfully-sensitive skin.

At the touch, Germany's body reflexively jerked away - the pleasure was so acute his body was starting to register it as pain. " _Ahn_ ," he managed, shaking his head, baring his teeth to ride out the overstimulation.

France, thankfully, got the message and pulled his hand away. "All right… hm… let me try…"

The moment that France's hands gently pinched Germany's earlobes between thumb and forefinger, the forefinger gently caressing up the curve of the ear, Germany lost it entirely, his body helplessly _jerked_ and _sensation_ , not pleasure, just overwhelming _sensation_ as his nerves sang and screamed and an invisible hand squeezed his lungs, his ears roaring--

When Germany woke up, morning sun streamed in through the window, he was wearing a pair of loose sweats, no shirt, and France was nowhere to be found.

Disoriented, he sat up, and swung his feet around the side of the bed, his eyes traveling over to the desk chair, where yesterday's clothes were folded.

This was enough to convince Germany that last night hadn't been some sort of fever dream - Germany never folded his dirty clothes (they would go into the hamper) and he wouldn't have put them on his desk chair. After staring at them for a few moments and staring out at the morning sunlight, he wondered how long he'd been out and where France had larked off to.

After a moment he pushed himself to his feet and wandered into the kitchen, which was Germany's next guess as to France's whereabouts. The tulip glass was still in the center of the kitchen table, the yellow roses cheerfully unfurled in the puddle of morning sun streaming in through the window.

Next to the flowers was a piece of paper, where France had written in his spidery, loopy handwriting:

_Germany - Many thanks for the enjoyable evening. Regrettably, I have business to attend to at home, so I have taken the liberty of showing myself out. Hopefully, this is the beginning of a long and fruitful partnership._

_Additionally, at the rate you are progressing, it will take far less than 50 years for you to attain tantric mastery. - Francis_

Putting down the note, Germany groaned and turned to put a pot of coffee on.

# # #

VORKUTA/THE VORKUTA UPRISING: Vorkuta is one of the better-known Russian gulags. Many of the things that happen in the story are from survivors of the camp - 12 days without food (apparently a bakery had burned down), pushing two-ton carts of slate by hand, losing already-meager food rations by failing to meet impossible quotas, guards asking unanswerable questions and beating inmates when they could not answer. Gilbert is in the maximum-security area of the camp, because he would have been classified as a person of interest. While he is let out to labor in Vorkuta's mines, it wasn't unheard of for certain maximum-security prisoners to be in solitary confinement for ten years or more.

POWs from WWII were officially kept in a separate prison system from Gulags, but there was inevitably some overlap.

The Vorkuta Uprising occurred in July of 1953, when inmates collectively refused to work the mines due to comparatively ill treatment, particularly for political prisoners. The uprising went on for two weeks bloodlessly, until the camp commander finally ordered the guards to open fire on the prisoners, killing over 50 instantly and over 150 later due to lack of medical care. The Uprising was squashed by August, but did result in slightly better working conditions for political prisoners.

The Bernd character is an OC who also featured in my other story Prussian Nights. Also, I am not Catholic nor even Christian, but I did try and do research on how confession works in Latin Catholic churches. I couldn't locate a singular source (seems that different places have different processes for it), so I almagated as best I could.

VOLGA GERMANS: Gilbert's cover story is that he's a member of an ethnic German group that had been living in an autonomous republic in Russia. Located along the Volga river, the Volga Germans had been invited to settle the area by Catherine the Great, under the promise that they could retain their language, religion, and heritage. When WWII started, Stalin declared them collaborators and shipped them en mass out to the farthest reaches of the Soviet Union (which was impressive because all of the USSR's resources were being diverted to send soldiers West, toward the invading German armies, but they spent a LOT of time and treasure on sending the Volga Germans east). Initially they were placed in 'resettlement camps' where thousands of them perished. Those that survived resettled in Central Asia, primarily in Kazakhstan. In the late 1970s there was some Soviet interest in creating a second autonomous region for the Volga Germans in the area around Ereymentau, Kazakhstan, but Kazakh officials (and locals) were vehemently against it so plans were scrapped.

When Germany started offering Right to Return status to ethnic Germans in the former USSR after the USSR dissolved, they left Central Asia in mass droves. Today, very few Volga Germans still live in Central Asia, though there are tons of villages left that still sport decidedly non-Russian/Central Asian names: Bergtal, Friedenfeld, Luxemburg, etc.

THE WALL JUMPER: One of the most iconic photos of the Cold War is Conrad Schumann jumping over the barbed wire that would eventually become the Berlin Wall. After completing his famous leap, he ended up moving to Bavaria, where he married a woman and settled down, working in an Audi plant. However, the extreme fame of his jump caused him stress, and drove him to drink. His relations were strained with his family, left behind in on the other side of the Wall. They wrote him repeated letters inviting him to go visit, but the STASI was behind it. (He almost went once, but a West Berlin policeman talked him out of it at the last minute. When people were allowed access to their STASI files after the Cold War, the one on Schumann was thicker than a dictionary.)

Suffering from depression, Schumann committed suicide after an argument with his wife in 1998.

RECYCLING: Recycling was a major cornerstone of life in East Germany, since it helped provide the state with raw materials it lacked. Recycling employed thousands of people, and it also gave groups like the Young Pioneers something to do, as they would go door-to-door and collect old newspapers and glass bottles. A full cart of recycling would get children 8-10 marks, which was usually put toward school lunches. East Germany was one of the most avid recyclers in the world until 1990, when the government stopped paying people to do it. Participation swiftly fell off, resulting in nearly 20,000 layoffs when the recycling plants shut down.

 _Der Volkspolizist_ translates to 'The People's Police' and is a children's song from East Germany. You can look it up on YouTube. It's a delightful mix of adorable and creepy.

Élysée Treaty: Signed in January, 1963, this treaty of friendship between France and West Germany attempted to iron out the centuries of conflict between the two countries and initiate a more cooperative relationship. Regular summits between French and German leaders were established, and still occur to this day.

French President De Gaulle also tried to separate West Germany from its relationship with the United States in order to have a more European-focused movement. He was worried that Western Europe was being subsumed into American interests, and the original treaty had no mention of the presence of the United States (or Britain).

US President Kennedy took exception to this, and once German government officials got wind of Washington's displeasure, a preamble was added to the treaty stipulating that West Germany intended to continue cooperating with the US, Britain would join the ECC, free trade according to GATT would be attained, and West Germany would be militarily integrated into NATO under US leadership.

Today, France and Germany are considered the two 'core countries' of the EU and both are counted among the world's five most powerful countries according to the Global Presence Index. (As of 2014, the list in descending order: US, UK, Germany, China, and France.)

TRANSLATION: The translation of Gilbert and Bernd's Russian lesson is below. "Inf" denotes "informal" and "f" denotes "formal":

Gilbert hummed. No better way to stop a crying child than a distraction: this had been a cornerstone with West when the other was too young to take orders. " _What is your [inf] name? My name is--_ " here, he pointed to himself, "Gilbert Beilschmidt."

While the boy's eyes were blank through the actual Russian, the meaning of the sentence was obvious. " _Hello, Herr Beilschmidt_ ," the boy said bashfully, with a terribly thick accent.

Gilbert's lip twinged in amusement. " _No, no, 'Herr Beilschmidt' is German. Just Gilbert is fine. What is your [inf] name?_ "

Blank look. Gilbert pointed to himself meaningfully again. " _My. Name. Is._ Gilbert Beilschmidt." He pointed to the boy. " _What. Is. Your. Name_?"

The boy pointed to himself. "Bernd Ditzen. …Bernd, _please_."

Gilbert hummed approvingly and ran a hand through Bernd's hair; Bernd leaned into it as easily as West ever had, clearly as desperate for kind touch as Gilbert was pleased to give it. " _Good. Okay, one more time. What is your [inf] name?_ "

Bernd's eyes twisted to the side in thought. "… _what is your [inf] name…_ " he said thoughtfully, as if pondering deep thoughts.

…Gilbert almost snickered, and shook his head, pointing to himself. " _What is_ your _[f] name_ ," he corrected.

" _Your [f]?"_

" _Your. [f]"_

 _"…your? [f]_ "

Gilbert couldn't help it - he laughed. Bernd flushed red, but a smile managed to bend his mouth sheepishly.

This is nearly impossible to get across in English since English doesn't have informal/formal you. Gilbert is trying to get across that Gilbert [the elder] is using informal you with Bernd, but Bernd has to use formal with him. (Also, vas/tebe doesn't really translate to 'your' per se, but it's the most simple translation I can offer.) There also really isn't a direct Russian translation for 'Mr./Ms.' (or Herr/Frau)… for formal/polite use, most Russians will use both first name and patronymic. Obviously, if you don't have a patronymic, you can't use this convention.

And Gilbert certainly could have gotten this across by comparing 'ti' and 'vuy' to 'du' and 'sie,' (German does have formal/informal you) but this was more entertaining for him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1972\. 1953. 1969. 1975. 1989. America and Russia play chess. Gilbert learns why he was sent to the Gulag. Poland asks for forgiveness. Hungary has five days of freedom. Austria remembers why he fell in love with Hungary. Czechoslovakia deals with German traitors like a true comrade. West Germany is tired of this stupid game. East Germany learns that Prussia is a dick, among other things.

_September, 1972_

Russia was already seated at the table with a piala of tea when America walked in the room.

"You're late," Russia said dryly, raising an eyebrow and leaning back in his chair.

The admonishment made America snort. "Sorry, some of us have money to make." The snipe had no actual malice in it - oh, Russia was very familiar with Angry America - and Russia merely shook his head as America removed his leather jacket and threw it over the back of the chair opposite. "Got any coffee?" he asked, nodding toward Russia's placidly steaming tea.

"Instant," Russia replied after lifting his piala up to his mouth, causing America to make a face.

"I don't understand why you Soviets all have a boner for that ersatz shit," America said, heading over to the samovar in search of Nescafe. "And for the love of God, what is _up_ with this bowl fuckery?"

"You swear a lot," Russia pointed out calmly, closing his eyes and inhaling the steam from his tea with a pleasured sigh. "And Nescafe is hardly ersatz. You wouldn't know ersatz if it hit you in the face."

"You'd swear _too_ if you came from a free country where you can get _real coffee_ and drink it out of a reasonably-sized mug and suddenly find yourself in some hellhole where you're forced to drink powder from a thimble." Despite the complaining, America made the coffee quickly and went to sit down, bringing his 'thimble' with him. "All right, all right, enough: let's get started."

Russia gave America a long look over the expanse of the chessboard between them. "You're sure you want to do this," Russia said, voice a little flat. "You may have a better chance at beating me at something… more on your level. Like a hotdog-eating contest."

America rolled his eyes behind his two black lines of chess pieces. "Well, I'd definitely win _that_ , so absolutely no point. It's far more enjoyable to beat you at your own game."

Russia was quiet for a moment, sizing the other up. "I didn't even know you liked chess," he said, putting the piala down and gazing over his own white pawns.

"I don't," America said with a shrug, leaning back into his chair. "But I do like to win."

# # #

February, 1953

In comparison to Vorkuta, Marfino was absolute paradise.

It was clean, there was reasonably adequate food: no beatings. Work was indoors. Rather than slowly starving to death, one was merely on the brink of it.

His labor was simple: translation. Apparently the guards at Vorkuta had heard the Russian lessons that he'd been giving to Bernd, which made him a Person of Interest higher up. Rather than waste him in a mine, he was far more useful pushing paper.

So, Gilbert pushed the paper. It was easy, mindless work for him: he gained back some of the weight he'd lost at Vorkuta. Even though he was no longer in solitary confinement, he never talked to the other inmates, not wanting to create relationships that would inevitably end. When Gilbert slept at night, he dreamed of shoes soaking in brains and blood; of a crying boy who would never see home.

It made Gilbert sick. He wondered if his long separation from his homeland was making his views more human: nations were human as well, of course, but he'd seen men, boys, women, and girls die in thousands of horrific ways throughout his centuries of existence; he was a creature of war, and he'd washed the earth with more blood than Vorkuta ever could. He'd never cared this much before.

He'd changed. He wasn't sure if it was for the better, and he wasn't sure if it was the inevitable march to mortality or not. But he'd changed.

_You are German, yes?_

Gilbert lifted his head from his papers - technical specs on rocket technology - to see two men standing there, looking curiously at him. Both were prisoners; Gilbert had seen them around before, both together. They were clearly friends: tall, lanky Russians, one blond, one brown, dressed in identical worn uniforms. It was the brown-haired one asking the question.

 _Volga German_ , he replied, sitting up a little straighter. Unlike at Vorkuta, talking to a fellow prisoner here during work hours wasn't a crime punishable by severe beatings, starvation, and imprisonment. _I'm from Kazakhstan._

 _Ah, so not a fascist, then?_ the blond-headed one asked, though there was a hint of a smile around his lips, indicating that he was teasing.

No, not anymore. Frankly, if Gilbert had known then what he knew now, he would have killed his former boss personally. That didn't happen: nations _never_ harmed their bosses… but Gilbert happily would have been the first. He'd been an idiot.

He must have been projecting a stony look, because the dark-haired Russian held up his hands. _I'm sure you're not_ , he said. _Good thing, too, because we're here because we idolize them and if you_ were _one, we wouldn't be able to control the urge to take down socialism and kill everybody with you._

Uh. Gilbert's eyes did a quick snap around the perimeter of the room; there was nobody there, of course, but there was _also_ no telling what was bugged and what wasn't. _For the record_ , he said in a slightly raised voice so that any implanted devices could pick up on it. _Long live the glorious USSR._

What any implanted devices _couldn't_ pick up on was the way Gilbert rolled his eyes at the statement, causing the two Russians to laugh and sit down, uninvited, at his table.

 _…so what are you here for?_ Gilbert intoned, as it was clear they wanted to make conversation with him. Gilbert was reasonably sure it wasn't because the two before him were actually virulent Nazis; _actual_ Nazis definitely would have been thrown down a mineshaft in this system, not given a cushy desk job.

The brown-haired one - the more talkative of the two - ticked up his lip. "I volunteered for the Red Army back in 1941," he said, switching over into surprisingly-seamless German. He had a slight Russian burr to it, but it was less accented than even Russia was when he deigned to speak the language. "I was very much into Communism… oh, yes, the glorious USSR… I helped the regime legitimize the Holodomor, you know, when they took the food away from the peasants and made them starve. The peasants were class enemies, you know! We had to do it in the name of socialism!" He moved his hands for emphasis, rolling his eyes at the same time. "It was the only right thing to do! Never mind that, oh, about 5 million of them were killed. Sweep it right under the rug. Socialism! The glorious future!"

The blond-haired one sighed. _If he's talking too much, feel free to tell him to shut up_ , he advised.

 _I'll tell him if I need to_ , Gilbert assured him in Russian - the blond apparently didn't speak German - but nodded to the other. This was interesting.

The dark-haired Russian snorted at his compatriot. _Go sit on a dick_ , he told the blond primly, who rolled his eyes. "Anyhow. After _that_ wonderful cause, I was with the army to defeat the terrible fascists. Of course, we had plenty of reason to hate them… and I did. I hated them. When the Red Army started its march into East Prussia… I was merely a journalist, you see, but at that moment I had been wishing I'd joined the infantry, just so I could tear the heart out of the Wehrmacht myself."

Gilbert struggled to keep his face neutral, his shoulders tensing up. Not so much at the ire - that was understandable - but if this prisoner was going to paint a romantic picture of Königsberg, Gilbert was going to rip his throat out even if it got him booted back to Vorkuta.

The dark-haired man shook his head. "It was barbaric," he said flatly. "Of course, those devil _Einsatzgruppen_ can rot in the blackest pits of hell… but…" He shook his head. _Sasha saw what happened, too_.

'Sasha,' despite not understanding German, immediately knew what they were talking about. _Be glad you didn't have to see it_ , Sasha said, obviously unaware that Gilbert knew _exactly_ what had gone on. _They robbed and beat the elderly, they crucified the men, they raped the women until they died, and when there were no more women they raped the children, they would stick things in their mouth if they cried--_

 _I understand_ , Gilbert said tightly, in an effort to get Sasha to _stop_. He remembered.

Sasha, fortunately, took the cue and stopped describing. He shook his head. _I couldn't believe my eyes. It made me ill._

The dark-haired Russian nodded. _I couldn't believe my eyes, as well. I understood the anger… I myself was furious… but… seeing that… how were we any better than the fiends that raped our women, fouled our fields, and killed us? We were doing the same thing._

 _We were just as bad_ , Sasha murmured. _The war turned everybody - both sides - into unfeeling monsters_.

Gilbert stared for a long moment. _…that's why you got sent to the gulag?_

The dark-haired Russian snorted. _I'm here because I have "compassion for the enemy."_ True _Soviets are happy watching four-year-olds who wouldn't know Hitler from the village drunk getting raped to death._

There was a long silence.

 _That's not really what we're here for, though_ , Sasha said after the silence had extended, the side of his lip ticking up, humorlessly. _That's only what they_ say _we're here for._

Gilbert had abandoned all pretense of work, wordlessly turning his head between the humans as they spoke. When Sasha had finished speaking, he looked at the dark-haired one, who was nodding in agreement with Sasha.   _I do deserve to be punished,_ he said frankly. _For the many years I've zealously participated in plundering the peasants… worshiping Stalin… lying and deceiving myself in the name of historical necessity._ _The ideas I had subscribed to are ruinous. They've ruined millions of lives. This…_ here he motioned with his hands, indicating the room, _is the very least of what I deserve._

There was another very long pause.

 _What about you?_ Sasha asked, breaking the silence for a second time. _Why are you here?_

Gilbert still didn't believe in a god: he didn't think he'd ever do so again. He also didn't believe that Russia set this all up on purpose. Sometimes, wisdom simply came of its own accord. _Same reason_ , Gilbert said.

# # #

_September, 1972_

"Truth," Russia said with a shrug, "is subjective." His tone was light, but his eyes scanned the chessboard for possibilities. America was an interesting chess player. He didn't appear to subscribe to any of the classical approaches, which made him harder to pin down than Russia had originally thought he would be.

On one hand, it was irritating not to be able to pull out his trademark 4-move box trap and send the arrogant nation home packing, but on the other hand Russia _did_ love a good game of chess.

"Not all the time," America countered, lazily sweeping his gaze up from the chessboard. "It's pretty obvious when a photo is published with your boss standing next to somebody and then the photo gets republished later with the guy he was standing next to missing, because he's been 'erased.' It's obvious the second photo is a lie."

Russia snorted. Ah. Wait. After a pause, he moved a rook from F1 to D1. America's eyes snapped to the move. Russia leaned back and stood up to go fix another piala of tea. "It's not a lie if you're just editing the story you tell yourself. That's all a nation is, after all… the collection of stories you want to believe. If you believe it, it's true. It all depends upon your perspective."

America deadpanned and - _perfect_ \- slid his bishop over. A smile curled up the side of Russia's face.

"For instance," he said loftily. "There's the one story about the nation who got into a war against a much stronger power, the nation believing it was being unfairly repressed. The stronger power thought it would win easily, being richer, more advanced, and simply knowing better than the weaker one. However, the weaker nation was fighting for its home, and brought an inner fire to the fight that the stronger nation didn't have. The conflict dragged on for years… it became so unpopular among the stronger nation's people and became so expensive that the stronger nation had to withdraw. The weaker nation had won. David and Goliath, if you will."

America listened to him speak with an increasingly confused look on his adorable made-for-TV face. "What does the American Revolution have fuck-all to do with this?"

 _Perfect_. Russia smiled, and stepped up to the chessboard, putting the tea down. "The American Revolution?" he asked, voice innocent. "I was talking about Vietnam."

The sudden flash of rage that danced across the American's face, Russia knew, had nothing at all to do with the fact that Russia had just taken his bishop and Russia's rook was now in check position.

Russia sat down. "Check," he told America primly.

# # #

 March, 1969

"Holy crap," were the first words out of Poland's mouth when he'd opened the door to admit Germany. "You look _totally_ like your brother, if he were a quarter of his size and also, like, a girl."

Germany couldn't help but make a bit of a sour face at the remark about her size - it was getting to be a bit of a sore spot. Her bosses were less than pleased about it as well… even though she'd been around for over 20 years, she couldn't seem to manage a growth spurt. Even with the help of the Wall and the Iron Curtain, she was like a flower in a greenhouse that wouldn't take.

"…hello," she managed after a moment, not sure how to respond to that at all.

This caused green eyes to blink down at her before breaking off into peals of laughter. "And you're _totally_ as awkward as he is. Though, he's, like, considerably less awkward when trying to take the rest of us over. Anyway, come in, it's like, not warm outside at all."

The mention of 'taking the rest of us over' caused Germany's shoulders to freeze up defensively; this was a painfully awkward subject for her. Yes, of course, she'd inherited the memories and yes she'd studied the history, but she didn't _remember_ it personally and one of the things she resented most about The Other was being tarred with his brush of crimes.

But she followed Poland obediently into his house, one of the reconstructed buildings located in the Old City of Elblag. The inside was fresh and smelled of new paint: Germany was shown into a compact living room where the ground was littered with records. Western records: the Beatles, the Who, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, Frank Zappa…

Poland was busy rattling around in his kitchen like he hadn't shown a complete stranger into a room full of contraband that could land him in serious hot water. He poked his head into the living room. "You like prune compote, right? It's totally a Christmas drink, but I'm _totally_ craving it right now." When he noticed what Germany was staring at, he chuckled again at the aghast look on her face. "Don't tell me you even have the same _stick_ up your ass that your bro does!"

"He is _not_ my brother," Germany said, crossing her arms, wishing that she could rip her features into tiny shreds and rearrange them into something, _anything_ different. "And you can get into a lot of _trouble_ for this. You shouldn't have it."

Her sudden vehement response caused Poland to raise an eyebrow, compote apparently forgotten for the moment. "Hate to break it to you, but you are quite literally his spitting image, _and_ you have his name." His voice seemed to take on a slightly more serious pall.

"Neither one of those things by choice," Germany said, crossing her arms, looking down at the collection of forbidden music. "I _know_ what he did to you. Do you think I want to be compared to that? I have his _name_ , I look like him, but I am _not_ _a Nazi_."

Poland's mouth formed into a small 'o' shape and he seemed to freeze in place for a moment. "I'll just put some water on for tea, then," he muttered, obviously deciding that compote was too much effort. He disappeared into the kitchen and Germany heard him clanking about for a moment before he came out and sat in one of the ubiquitous boxy stuffed chairs, uniform across the Eastern Bloc.

He motioned for Germany to perch on the stiff couch. "Have a seat. Okay. First thing, yeah, your brothers were real total assholes, no lie--"

"Brother _s_?" Germany interrupted.

Poland's mouth dropped open. "Yeah. You know. Prussia. He's a dick. You… wait, you don't know about Prussia?"

Germany deadpanned. "I know what Prussia _was_ \--"

Poland waved his hand. "No need for the history. Dude, Prussia is a separate, living nation. His human name is Gilbert Beilschmidt."

"Prussia was officially dissolved at the end of the war," Germany pointed out, somewhat surprised. "You talk about him like he's still alive."

Poland rolled his eyes. "He was dissolved by Hitler and managed to survive it," he said, flicking his hand to dismiss Germany's sentence. "I don't think that the Western Allies and our dear Russian overlord would have better luck." Poland shrugged, the motion rippling his hair. "I'd be surprised if he were _actually_ dead. Russia probably has him locked up in a cage somewhere to torment."

Germany was silent, trying to work this out. _Another brother?_

"Soooo… if your human handlers didn't even tell you about another Beilschmidt cavorting about the world… d'ya think they're also being entirely truthful about the Beatles, or even that this whole stupid USSR thing is somehow good?"

Germany felt every hair on her body rise as her eyes reflexively glanced around the room.

Poland snorted. "Relax, we don't have the STASI," he said. "To be honest, I feel bad for you guys. Those assholes are worse than the Gestapo, really, and the Gestapo was no picnic. The only good thing about the STASI is they stay at _your_ house."

Calling the USSR stupid, check. Contraband music, check. Stating that USSR institutions were worse than Nazi institutions, check. If Germany hadn't been worried about saving face, she would have been _running_ out of this house. Her hands shook.

Poland's eyebrows raised. "Whoa, you're actually scared of them? Hang on." The kettle was going off in the other room, and Germany took the time to compose herself while Poland left the room to attend to it. Breathe evenly, she told herself. In, out, in, out…

She managed to get her hands to stop shaking in time for Poland to return with a tray laden with a teapot, two mugs, and a plate of cookies. He placed the tray on the sofa next to Germany, and knelt down in preparation to pour the tea. He looked up, face serious. "Nations shouldn't be afraid of their own governments," he said. "I don't know what they've been telling you, but it's messing you up."

Germany looked down into Poland's face. "I'm not scared of my government," she said. "I _am_ scared of my giant, Nazi-capitalist neighbor who--"

"I cannot believe that I am going to say this," Poland muttered. He reached out to pour the tea. "Neither Ludwig Beilschmidt nor Gilbert Beilschmidt are Nazis. They _were_ , but they're not any more. I guarantee that England, France, and America would not let Nazis run West Germany." He handed Germany a cup, which Germany took.

"America being an imperialist who broke up the coalition against Hitler," Germany said, face tightening as she spoke of the only one possibly more terrifying than The Other.

Poland looked at her like she had five heads. "…nobody actually believes that," he said slowly, carefully, like Germany might turn tail and run. "Or, like, maybe five people do, and you're apparently one of them. Look. You have, like, a literal wall in your country, yeah? What's the wall for?"

Germany paused, sipping from her tea. This was still frightening, to be talking about such subversive topics so _openly_ , but Poland didn't seem to be frightened, so… "It keeps _him_ out and other bad influences," she said.

Poland rubbed his head. "Talking to you is like talking directly to the party line," he said, grabbing a cookie from a plate. "Listen. If America and his gang of buds wanted to stomp their way through East Berlin, I guarantee a _wall_ is going to do absolutely nothing. America wouldn't even need a tank. He'd just kick it down, probably to show off 'cause he's sorta vain like that."

Germany opened her mouth… and then closed it.

Poland slowly nodded his head, as if encouraging her to follow the line of logic. "The wall is there to keep your people from leaving. The Iron Curtain is there to keep the people from leaving. Allllll of us, us Warsaw Pact friends--" here, Poland drew a big circle in the air with both fingers, starting at the 12 o'clock position and slowly moving down, "--are _trapped_." He slammed his fingers together.

Germany watched his fingers close, and winced, something uncomfortable niggling within her. She was still silent.

Poland looked away and shifted up to sit on the sofa. "The wall isn't there to prevent bad things from happening to you," he repeated. "It's there to keep people in. Just like the STASI is there to make sure everybody's a good boy or girl and does what they're supposed to do. If the wall wasn't there, you know in your heart your people would leave… they want to live where, like, they can get good cars and order fancy clothes from catalogs and maybe not have the voting system be totally rigged."

Part of Germany wanted to shove her fingers in her ears. "You're wrong," she whispered, though the voice was shaky. "You're… you're…"

Poland's face twisted in something like sympathy, but he shook his head slowly. "Honey, you know I'm not wrong." His voice was gentle.

Germany had to put the tea back on the tray, her hands were shaking so hard. Those wide hands, broad, wide hands, too wide, coming up to cover cold ice-blue eyes, the hands of a killer, the eyes of a fascist, the heart of a--

She felt an arm go around her shoulder - Poland must have moved the tea tray. "You're not bad," he told her. "You're not bad, I'm not bad, America isn't bad, Russia's not bad, West Germany isn't bad, Prussia…" he sighed, "Prussia's totally a dick, but he's not bad either. But you have to listen to yourself, sweetie… you sound just like your brothers did during the war… inflexible, completely under the thumb of their humans and mindless. Unable to think what the party didn't think. Look at what they did. I don't know when they figured it out, but it was far too late."

At that, Germany couldn't stop it anymore - hot tears started to pour out of her cold eyes, the ones she could never warm up. Poland's arm stayed around her, a welcome weight as she wept.

"H-how…" she managed after a few moments, accepting a napkin with a nod of thanks when Poland offered it to her, wiping at her nose. "How…" Here, she took a raggedy breath - she had never said these things to _anyone_ , and never planned to, but… "Whenever I look in the mirror, I hate it," she said lowly. "My face, my hair, my eyes, my hands, my body… I… I know I look like him, I know, and I just can't… I just  can't forgive him, I can't--"

"Forgiveness is pretty easy," Poland cut in, looking down. "You just have to decide to do it. _You_ have to decide to do it. Your people are another matter, and the government is definitely another ball of wax altogether." Poland took a breath and sighed. "I am going to guess you have not heard of the Letter of Reconciliation, hm?"

Germany looked up and shook her head, working on composing herself.

"Long letter, really," Poland said absently. "Anyway, it was sent back in '65, from some of my bishops to some German bishops. They wanted to invite the German bishops over to celebrate our 1000 year anniversary celebrations of Christianization. There's a line in this letter, you see, a line that's… well, I think it's pretty rad, sometimes you get humans that say it just the right way, you know? The line is, 'We forgive, and ask for forgiveness.'"

"Forgive what?" Germany asked, confused.

Poland chuckled. "All the shit that happened during the war. The Uprising, the ghettos, the death camps, the suffering. Everything."

"...and… what do you need to be forgiven for?" Germany went on, just feeling stupid.

Poland exhaled heavily, his cheeks puffing out. "Sooo… this town, yeah, it used to be called Elbing. Part of East Prussia back in the day. WWII happens, my borders get all changed because Russia insists, it becomes part of me now, we call it Elblag. Same thing happened with a lot of Prussia's old stuff, actually. Since it was mine, we ran the leftover German population out on a rail." He shrugged. "Lots of them died. In pretty bad ways."

Germany sniffed. "But in comparison to what happened to _you_ …"

"Ahh," Poland said, shaking his head. "There's where you get into trouble, see. 'Oh, well, you did _this_ to me, now I'm gonna be a real asshole when I have the chance,' just doesn't really work very well. Yeah, it was crappy. Nazis are assholes. But, you know what? Soviets are assholes, too. The West is full of a bunch of assholes. I've been run over and invaded and had to put up with a _lot_ of crap, I tell ya, and if I wanted to play comparison suffering, I'd bleed the whole world dry."

Fingers at her chin tilted Germany's tear-stained face up to meet serious green eyes. "It doesn't fix anything," he said slowly. "The only thing that possibly can is forgiveness."

The words hung in the air for a moment, before Poland released her chin and stood up, retrieving the now-cold tea and stacking it up on the tray. "But of course, you don't _hear_ any of this because it's more convenient for the government to have West Germany be some random Nazi asshole that's somehow allowed to still exist so we can all hate _him_ instead of hating the government." He rolled his eyes.

Germany looked down, working the napkin Poland had given her between her fingers, trying to organize her thoughts. They kept slipping through her mind like will-o-the-wisps: _Is he right? He can't be right. He's a nation. Why would he lie about this?_

When Poland patted her knee, she looked up. "You are actually much like Ludwig is," Poland said, standing and going over to the pile of records on the floor, shifting through them. " _Way_ too serious. I remember him when he was smaller than _you_ and I don't think he knew the meaning of 'fun,' man. Speaking of which, there's totally enough depressing crap going on in the world as it is. I wanna do something _not_ crappy. So, we're gonna listen to some of this great illegal music, I'm going to go make some compote, and then you can _totally_ try on some of my dresses. I've got a couple that'll make you look _hot_."

Jerked from her train of thought, Germany looked up as Poland pulled a vinyl out from its sleeve and slid it on the record player. Turning it on, he carefully placed the needle, and Germany was silent as static crackled for a few minutes before an aimless piano intro became audible.

Wait a minute. "…some of your _dresses_?" Germany asked, but it was fruitless, as Poland launched into a stirring rendition of 'I Can't Get Next To You.'

# # #

_September, 1972_

This was just getting irritating.

The chess game was dragging well on into its third hour. It had been a _very_ long time since Russia had played against an opponent that would keep him engaged for so long… of course, he was far from the best chess player his country could offer, but he was usually quite busy and so were his chess masters. It didn't happen often, but playing them was indeed an exquisite pleasure.

Playing America wasn't nearly as enjoyable. Particularly since he _definitely_ should have won this by now. Both nations had moved on from coffee and tea, since now it was in the early afternoon - America was sipping on a Coke, while Russia was busying himself with kvass.

Russia sighed as America lifted up a bishop and knocked over one of Russia's rooks with a flourish. Russia removed the piece, looking down at the carved castle turret thoughtfully before looking up at America - America was now sitting sideways in his chair, his back leaning against one armrest while his legs draped over the other side - and sipping from his bottle.

"You know, we could probably take over the world, if we were friends," he said absently, putting down the rook and picking up his kvass.

America looked over, raising a slow eyebrow. "What makes you say that?" he asked lightly.

"Who'd stop us?" Russia responded with a raised eyebrow. America's eyes slit with amusement as he chuckled.

"This is exactly why we're _not_ friends," America responded easily, eyes flashing with laughter and megalomania behind his glasses. "The only ones that can stop us are each other. And we do." Those eyes quickly scanned the game. "Oh. Wait. Check."

Russia's eyes snapped down to the board. _Damn_.

# # #

August, 1975

It was a hot day in Budapest, and Germany had to look up from her carefully written notes and drawn map to ensure that she had the right house. She didn't want to make a mistake.

Walking up to the apartment block, she buzzed a few apartments randomly, until some inhabitant - likely assuming that she was a neighbor who forgot the key code - buzzed her in. Great. The inside of the apartment complex looked exactly like the one that Germany herself lived in - unsurprising - so it didn't take her long at all to get to the right floor and find the right apartment. She rang the doorbell.

Germany could hear a woman's voice inside call something in Hungarian - a language Germany didn't speak - and open the door. Hungary, in a flour-covered apron stood there, and her eyebrows nearly hit the ceiling.

"Hello, it's been a while," Germany said quickly, holding up a piece of paper with the words, 'Is it safe to talk here?" printed neatly.

Hungary's eyes darted to the piece of paper, and slowly shook her head. "It has," Hungary said, quickly taking off the apron and tossing it in the apartment, shutting the door behind her. "It's such a nice day; we should enjoy a walk."

In reality, it was hotter than Hades outside, but Germany nodded and put the note back in her pocket. She lead the older woman outside and looked up - Hungary held a finger over her lips and motioned for Germany to follow - Germany obeyed, walking in silence as Hungary lead them to City Park, and into the a massive stone square.

Heroes' Square, it was called. Hungary's heels clacked authoritatively against the stone until both she and Germany stood under the statue of Gabriel on the column. Hungary turned around. "We can talk here," she said, raising an eyebrow. "I admit that I'm dying of curiosity. I…wasn't expecting you."

Germany looked around uneasily. "Are you sure it's all right to talk? It's… quite public here."

Hungary snorted. "Trust me. Oftentimes the best hiding spots are right out in the open. Now. Out with it."

Germany looked down for a moment, and looked up. "A few years ago I talked to Poland, and I wanted a second opinion," she said. It had taken her a _long_ time to get permission for a 'vacation' to Lake Balaton. Trying to rush the matter would have looked suspicious.

"Felix?" This made a smile cross Hungary's face, deep green eyes amused. "In that case, your dress is _toooooootally_ not hot."

It took a couple seconds for that to sink in, but Germany did release a giggle. "No, no, not on that."

"I think that's the first time I've ever seen you smile," Hungary commented, a small smile of her own appearing. "You should do it more. I used to tell your brother that all the time, as well, you know. Makes you look… more approachable."

Germany cleared her throat. "Yes. Well. Uh. Ahem." She took a breath. "They say that… what happened in 1956 here was an anti-socialist insurrection that had to be ended by force in order to protect the people." Germany's eyes darted to the side. "Is it true?"

The silence extended so long that Germany was starting to worry - she peered up, to see Hungary looking down with a flat expression. "Well, at least you've got the sense to question what you're told," she said, shoving her hands down into her pockets. "More than I could say for your brothers a few decades back."

There it was again. _Brothers_. Having asked the first question, though, Germany filed the second away for later.

"Of course it's not true," Hungary said, looking down. "Stalin died, and we were tired of that asshole - one day you're all worried about the Nazi bastards, and the next you're dealing with Soviet bastards - and actually got somebody reasonable in office." Her eyes shuttled to the side for a long moment, mouth tightening. "Imre Nagy. Five days."

"Five days?" Germany asked.

Hungary nodded. "Five days of freedom. Freedom of religion, freedom of speech, hell, even democracy. We were going to be free… we'd had enough. We wanted to leave the Warsaw Pact… we'd had enough. _That's_ when the tanks showed up, killed thousands of people, and they put in my current boss who…" She tipped her head back and forth. "He really isn't a bad guy. Listens to people for the most part. I'd rather be working for him than any of these other clowns they've got running the circus."

Germany thought of her own boss and winced. The wind blew, rustling the leaves of the park around the stone statues of Hungarian heroes long past.

"But saying that what happened in 1956 was an 'insurrection' is total crap," Hungary continued firmly. "My people actually did what they wanted to do… we had a leader we actually chose, and then…" She lifted a shoulder in a shrug, but her face was anything but neutral. "…they took him away, executed him for treason, and didn't tell any of us about it until after. We had _hoped_ that the West would see us as an opportunity and come help, but…" She shook her head, rolling her eyes. "They're too involved with their pissing contest with Russia to pay attention and make _actual_ change. Just ask Czechoslovakia. The West does this sort of crap to him all the time. But, well, if you want something done right, you've got to do it yourself." She exhaled through her nose and looked up, her eyes canvassing over the stone statues of the square. "The time will come."

Germany nodded slowly. "I see," she said, though her heart sank even further.

It was a lie. Everything was a lie. _That_ was the reason she couldn't grow. She took another breath. "One more question… who is Prussia?"

Hungary's face rearranged into something incredulous. "…what do you mean, 'who is Prussia'?"

Germany sighed. "I know about the one on the other side of the wall… the one I look like."

"You do look exactly like him," Hungary admitted. "It's a little eerie."

Sigh. "I know, I've met him once. But… I don't know anything about Prussia. I didn't even know he was a country personification until I talked to Poland."

Hungary snorted, one hand reaching up to brush her hair behind her ear. "Prussia's a dick," she said primly. "But… yes, he raised Germany, used to be one of the great terrors of Europe, et cetera, et cetera." She flicked her hand, to indicate that the story went on. "Disappeared after the last war, but I'm pretty sure he's still alive." The corner of her lip twinged. "Or, at least, I hope so."

Confusion crossed Germany's face. "I thought he was a dick."

Hungary laughed. "That doesn't mean I don't _like_ him," she said, reaching forward to link arms with her, steering her gently through the open square and into the green expanses of the park. "Come on, since you've come all this way, I'll buy you a _Kürtoskalác_."

# # #

_September, 1972_

"So, what, exactly, do you think would happen if the Iron Curtain fell?"

Russia, contemplating his next move, looked up with an incredulous look on his face. "Excuse me?" he asked.

America looked rather blasé at the moment, slumped inelegantly in his chair, his cheek resting against a fist. "Let's just say that, theoretically, a hole appeared in the Iron Curtain. Anybody could walk through it… West to East, East to West. We just…" Here, America sat up and opened his arms wide, "Let it open. For a day, even. What do you think would happen?"

Russia looked down at his pieces, and smiled.

"Don't ask stupid questions," he advised.

America's eyes twinkled.

# # #

_August, 1989_

Austria was standing near the border, shading his eyes, and waiting.

Normally, Austria wouldn't have traveled so far from his beloved Vienna in such intense sun, but _normally_ Hungary wasn't involved. So, here he was, sweating in a suit on the other side of a fence made of barbed wire. While Austria counted himself lucky enough to be on the "good" side of it, in his opinion there was nothing good about being forcibly separated from Hungary. Or, for that matter, the little sister he'd never met.

Even Prussia, who was a dick.

Lost in his thoughts, Austria didn't notice Hungary walking up to him until she was _right_ before him, and… oh, what a sight.

She looked absolutely _radiant_. Austria couldn't remember seeing a sight so beautiful for sore eyes: brown hair thrown back, a smile painted across her face that one of the masters would kill to capture with his brush: even though her clothes were worn, nothing, no, not _anything_ could repress that beauty.

Also, she was _definitely_ up to something. After Austria managed to kill the sudden desire to build a joint empire again, he unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "You… didn't bring any food," he managed.

After all, Hungary had gone through a lot of _trouble_ for a picnic, it had seemed. Months of negotiations. Finally, finally, permission for a small border opening to be breeched in the Iron Curtain, all so Hungary could see him again. It was terribly romantic in one way, but, also, Hungary was _definitely_ up to something.

Hungary laughed, her hands reaching up to untangle the barbed wire holding the locks sealing the border gate in place. "Oh, right," she said carelessly, sun turning those perfect tresses golden brown as she flicked them over her shoulder. "The picnic. Uh-huh."

Austria took a moment to admire her hands - perfect piano specimens, they were, delicately flicking along the deadly wire, beautiful sprites flitting among the branches of a poison bush. After a moment, his hands joined her, and they worked together in silence, breaking down the barrier between them.

"This really isn't about a picnic," Hungary said after a moment, when both had managed to unsnarl some of the nasty metal trap.

"I know," Austria said, voice quiet. "Though, you could tell me what it _is_ about, because… this is… altogether strange."

It had been an altogether strange year, however, from Poland's Solidarity to _this_. Things were clearly teetering on the edge of a poorly-balanced knife.

"It's about my German problem," Hungary said after a moment, standing back from the gate once the barbed wire had been removed. In her other hand was a pair of long-handled lock-snippers.

"Your German problem," Austria echoed, raising an eyebrow. Hungary had lifted the lock-snippers, but sighed, resting them against her shoulder like a rifle at rest.

"You see, East Germany's people _love_ to vacation at Lake Balaton," Hungary said absently, beautiful green eyes flitting to a perfectly-blue sky. "They come every year. This year, though, they haven't left."

Austria was paying enough attention to her words to raise an eyebrow.

She shrugged. " _Normally_ we'd have to send them back. That's the rules. However… I'm not sure if you've met East Germany, but she's a real sweet potato. Smart girl, really, probably smarter than her brothers combined if you ask me… but men are pretty stupid, so it's not a hard line to surpass… anyhow, it puts me in a bit of a quandary, you see. There are thousands of them, just camped out around the lake… even where there aren't facilities… and they aren't leaving. If they stay, they'll die over the winter. If I send 'em back…" She shrugged. "East Germany's boss isn't like mine. They'll be persecuted. The logical solution would be to send 'em west, which is where they obviously want to go… but… that would almost certainly bring the wrath of Russia down and, nah."

Austria's eyes traversed the length of that damned fence, the Iron Curtain, as far as he could see in both directions. "So you're having a picnic."

Hungary's smile brightened. "A friendship picnic," she said cheerfully. "With an open border, so Austrians and Hungarians can enjoy our combined heritage without borders. Isn't it wonderful?"

Austria's brows crossed in confusion for a moment, before he smiled, chuckling. "And if a bunch of East German humans happen to take advantage of the open gate and pass through illegally--"

"Not my problem!" Hungary said with a grin, reaching the long-handled snippers up.  " _I_ didn't say it was okay. I just gave them invitations to a picnic."

Down went the lock.

The gate swung open.

Austria couldn't hide his smile. "I still love you," he said, voice low, restrained, the gate finally opened, nothing between them.

Hungary dropped the lock-cutter, those beautiful green eyes suddenly overbright. "I've never stopped," she replied. "Not even for a minute."

With the gate cut, the two nations embraced, paying little heed to the growing crowd of humans fleeing toward the opening.

# # #

_October, 1989_

Czechoslovakia sat across from Germany in a very-official-looking office. It was a bit strange for him to be sitting across from, well, somebody who looked as though she couldn't be older than 10, but he was familiar with the serious-look of a Beilschmidt when he saw it.

"We seem to have a bit of a problem in Prague," he said carefully, raising an eyebrow at her. Both were very well-aware the room was bugged.

"Yes, it's become quite an issue," the child said, ice blue eyes serene despite the somewhat-severity of her words.

Ah. Czechoslovakia leaned back, raising an eyebrow of his own. "We're planning on enacting extreme measures," he said, tipping his head the other way and raising up a corner of his mouth.

"We're planning on allowing you to enact measures as you see fit, in accordance with the current gravity of the situation," Germany said, raising the corner of her own mouth. "We know that you are in solidarity with us on this."

"There was almost 5,000 of your citizens who defected last time. Now there are around 6,000 at the embassy," Czechoslovakia went on. "And I am, of course, your loyal comrade."

Germany nodded. "Thousands of traitors to the state that need to be dealt with appropriately," she continued, and now Czechoslovakia was actively trying not to laugh, "I'm sure you will act appropriately without delay."

"And we'll rise together in socialism," Czechoslovakia said, covering his mouth. This was _too funny_.

"Together we'll rise," Germany said simply, before rising and showing herself out.

The next day, those 6,000 traitors were on a sealed train through East Germany and into the West, where the other Germany, dressed in a suit and handing out Deutsch Marks, received them.

# # #

_October, 1989_

"Oh, _come on_ you bitch whore," Gilbert swore, punching the television on its side as the picture of the CNN commentator wobbled in and out of reception. " _Come on_."

So it had been since his release from the gulag in 1953, after Stalin had finally kicked the bucket in March. Living with Russia. Walking in circles around Red Square. Trying to hack into CNN as much as he could because _so goddamn much was happening and he was stuck here doing nothing_.

Latvia, Estonia, and Lithuania were singing themselves out of Communism. Poland - that bastard - had elected the Eastern Bloc's first non-Communist government. Hungary was busy breaking down the fences between herself and that fucking aristocratic fop (no doubt they were having porny sex all over the place, Prussia thought with no small amount of disgruntlement).

Germans - his people? He had no idea - were leaking out of the Bloc like water through a sieve. Travel to Hungary had been denied at the end of September since wave after wave of refugees were streaming through the cracks. They were camping out in Czechoslovakia. The current news broadcast that Gilbert was _trying_ to watch - if only the reception wasn't such a _fucking cunt_ \- seemed to be saying that East German officials had closed travel to Czechoslovakia as well, leaving itself a hard-line Communistic island adrift in a sea of change.

Yesterday, nearly 10,000 protesters had showed up in Leipzig. Russia had backed off and astonishingly did not run anybody over with tanks. Everything was falling apart.

 _And Gilbert was fucking stuck here_.

"You _fuck_!" Gilbert shouted, taking his frustration out on Russia's boxy television contraption with the antennae wired to high heaven and back in order to get illicit channels. "You _fucking fuck_!"

"I always wondered what your private nickname for me was," Russia's voice came from behind him, sounding amused.

Gilbert turned around. "I can't get fucking CNN," he ground out, itchy, antsy, and _fucking stuck_ \--

"Go pack your bags," Russia said, turning around and heading to the kitchen, probably to make yet more tea.

…this was enough for Gilbert to allow the television to die into the fizz of static. "…what?" he asked, abandoning the television to follow Russia into the room.

"You're going home," Russia said nonchalantly, like he was commenting on the weather. Which was fucking crappy that day.

Gilbert, shocked, felt like his feet had cemented to the linoleum floor.  "Home?" he asked, voice embarrassingly weak.

Russia nodded, picking up a piala and moving to the samovar. "Well, to the German Democratic Republic, at least," he said with a shrug. "We're to attend the festivities."

Uh. "…what… festivities?" Gilbert asked, absolutely confused. From what Gilbert could discern from the news, the only 'festivities' going on were massive Monday Demonstrations and people leaking out of the GDR like it was a shittily sealed Trabant were the only 'festivities.' Gilbert knew that Russia's new boss was considerably more lax than the others had been, but, uh.

"Didn't you know?" Russia asked calmly, a slow smile spreading over his features. "It's all over _Pravda_."

Yeah, because Gilbert spent all of his time gargling _that_ tripe. "Oh?"

"It's almost East Germany's 40th birthday," Russia went on blandly, spooning sugar into his piala before going for the hot water. "It would be extremely rude of us not to visit."

To Gilbert's knowledge, the GDR had experienced many birthdays _before_ this - like, 39 of them - and Russia had never mentioned Gilbert going to visit, but, uh, whatever.

"Oh… Okay," Gilbert said, weirded out but _not_ wanting to question this. He backed away from the kitchen like Russia might start tossing grenades at any moment.

"Be quick," Russia advised, looking out the window with his cup of tea. "He who is too late is punished by life."

That didn't sound like normal packing advice. Whatever. Didn't matter. Gilbert merely nodded and turned to the bedroom, throwing his extra clothes into a plastic bag, since that was all he owned.

When he emerged, Russia was there and nodded him out of the apartment - there was a car waiting in the streets of Kitai-Gorod below.

Gilbert would never return to that apartment again.

# # #

In West Berlin, Germany was watching Tagesschau on repeat, and worrying at his bottom lip.

"I can't imagine they'll do it," America said from behind him.

"I don't think anybody imagined what they'd do in China, either," Germany said, standing up and shaking his head. America sighed, stepping forward and turning off the news, earning him a _look_ from Germany.

"You think it's going to tell you anything you haven't already heard?" America asked, crossing his arms.

"They might have more footage," Germany grumbled, but was perfectly aware that it was 8:30pm and that was unlikely. He rubbed his forehead and leaned back on his couch. 

America sighed, and turned his gaze out the windows of Germany's living room, which opened eastward.

"Are we going to do anything if they _do_ start shooting?" Germany asked simply, the question on everybody's mind. China's government had managed to stay in power by killing… untold thousands. A potential copy of Tiananmen was unfolding just a few miles down the road.

America exhaled lowly. "I think you know the answer to that question."

Germany snorted. "Yeah, that you're not going to answer the question unless you have to answer it." He shook his head, and rested his head in his hands.

America's gaze turned back to him. "You know as well as I do why that is."

"I," Germany said after a long moment of silence, "am so, so, so tired of being a pawn in this _stupid_ game."

As expected, America didn't seem to take the implications of that badly. Germany had learned a long time back that it actually took more to ruffle America's feathers than insubordination. The other nation even seemed to welcome it, in a weird way. "I'm pretty tired of moving pawns around, myself," America admitted. "But I don't think I'll be playing too much more chess with this set."

It wasn't like America to speak in metaphor, and Germany raised an eyebrow only to see America looking off to the east once more. "…I still don't even understand why you're here," he told the back of America's head.

America looked over, silhouetted by the glow of the city below. "I've spent the last 50 years setting up checkmate," he said, arms crossed. "If you think I'm not going to watch it be delivered, you got another thing coming."

# # #

Russia had dropped him off in an unassuming corner of East Berlin, which looked like a crappier version of Moscow. He had a piece of paper with an address, and vague instructions from Russia to show up at the birthday celebrations or whatever.

Gilbert, after all of this time, had never been able to figure out if Russia was actually crazy or knew exactly what he was doing. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He felt more whole than he had for decades - the moment the train crossed over into German soil, it was like a flood of warmth. He was home.

Now, there was just some unfinished business to wrap up. Gilbert went up to the keypad for the apartment block and hammered at random buttons until somebody took mercy on him (or just wanted to shut the buzzer up) and let him in. Up the stairs he went, down the hall, to the door.

The door opened before he could knock.

"Holy shit," was Gilbert's first greeting to the teenaged female-Ludwig that stood before him. Christ on a pogo stick, from the eyes to the slight widow's peak to the slicked back hair (though hers was in a tight plait) to the wide shoulders to the expression of mild surprise it was all _the exact same_.

"…you must be Prussia the dick," the female Germany said, sizing him up.

Gilbert deadpanned. "Don't tell me you've been corrupted by Austria," he said. "I can still kick his ass." Probably. He hoped.

"Poland and Hungary, mostly," female-Germany said, stepping back to let him into her apartment, which, unsurprisingly, looked like every other god-forsaken apartment touched by Communism.

"My biggest fans," he said dryly, stepping in and shutting the door. "Actually, I'm not--"

He was cut off by female-Germany wrapping him up in a _very_ strong hug that almost felt like a Heimlich maneuver. "Whoa!" Gilbert said, surprised… but, after a moment, finding himself returning the hug. "Uh, so, happy birthday," he said, not sure how to proceed.

"Balls to that," female-Germany said, and Gilbert was already starting to like her more than male-Germany, "you're going to help me with the revolution!"

"You are the better Germany," Gilbert instantly decided. The phrase "help me with the revolution" was about as much at home in West's mouth as the lyrics to a Barry White song.

"Yeah, well, he's a man," female-Germany pointed out sensibly.

Gilbert cackled. "What's your human name?"

"Veronika Beilschmidt," female-Germany said.

"Fuck yeah it is!" Gilbert cried, and spun Veronika Beilschmidt in a circle, causing her to whoop.

# # #

_September, 1972_

"Checkmate."

Russia looked down at the remaining pieces on the board, and sat back. "So it seems," he said, picking up his glass of vodka over ice.

At this point, the game had gone on for nearly 8 hours and they'd moved from sodas to alcohol. America was sipping on a glass of bourbon, and took a sip, leaning back in his chair.

There was a long silence where the only sound was the clink of melting ice against chilled glasses. Funny. Russia was expecting a lot more gloating. He raised an eyebrow at the other, an expression America simply returned.

"Good match," Russia finally settled on, a neutral expression.

"A very good one, considering I won it," America said, reaching behind him for his jacket.

Russia snorted, sitting back in his chair as the other slid the leather over his shoulders, shrugging back into it. "Winning isn't everything," he said with a tip of his lip.

"Yeah," America said, reaching for his glass and knocking the rest of it back. After a slight wince, he put the empty tumbler on the table. "It's the only thing." 

 _And they call_ me _crazy_ , Russia thought as the other left the room.

# # #

HISTORICAL NOTES (brace yourself):

RUSSIA AND AMERICA PLAY CHESS: September 1972 was when Bobby Fischer played Boris Spassky in the World Chess Championship. Bobby Fischer won the match, and this was _huge_ considering that the USSR had a massive chess culture and the US had none at all. This match was _highly_ publicized as a parable for the Cold war. A fellow Soviet chess Grandmaster, Kasparov, characterized the match as so: "Fischer fits ideologically into the context of the Cold War era: a lone American genius challenges the Soviet chess machine and defeats it."

SASHA AND THE DARK-HAIRED RUSSIAN: These characters are actually Alexsandr Solzheinitsyn ("Sasha") and Lev Kopelev (the dark-haired one). Both are real people who were sentenced to the gulag for anti-State activity: Solzheinitsyn for making negative remarks about Stalin in a letter and Kopelev for "bourgeoisie humanism" and "sympathy for the enemy."

Both were present for the Red Army's East Prussian offensive, and both were horrified by the carnage wreaked on the local populace. Kopelev had been a dyed-in-the-wool Communist and had covered the Holodomor as a correspondent. The Holodomor was when Soviet agents purposefully starved Ukrainian peasants to death in order to collectivize them… it's estimated that at bare minimum 5 million people died… and at the time was a true believer. When he was covering East Prussia, he lost his faith in Communism (or, more pointedly, in Stalinism). The speech about being in the Gulag for supporting Stalinism is paraphrased from an actual quote by him.

Alexandr Solzheinitsyn became a writer after he was released from prison. One of his more famous works is a 50-page poem called "Prussian Nights" that he "wrote" in the Gulag by memorizing it. It's about the East Prussian offensive, and is an extraordinarily good read if you want 50 pages of nightmare fuel. (This is also what my "Prussian Nights" story is named after, but I forgot to note it there because I'm lucky if I remember what I had for breakfast this morning.)

Solzheinitsyn and Kopelev met at a _sharaksa_ , or a Gulag for scientific/technical prisoners. They were indeed friends. Sharaksa prisons had far better conditions than _taiga_ , or work camps like Vorkuta 

VIETNAM: As Russia points out, there are several parallels between the Vietnam war and the American Revolution. It should be noted that even though the chess match takes place in 1972, Vietnam didn't fully end until 1975, when Saigon fell. It's notable that Ho Chi Minh's hero was George Washington.

THE LETTER OF RECONCILLIATION: In 1965, Polish Bishops did indeed send a letter to German bishops with the iconic phrase "We forgive and ask for forgiveness." This is one of the very earliest and first attempts at reconciliation between the two countries after WWII. It was generally hushed up by the Polish government at the time, as anti-West German rhetoric was important to Władysław Gomułka's leadership.

THE HUNGARIAN REVOLUTION: In 1956, there was a revolt in Hungary that led to a very short period of democratic government. Imre Nagy, who was a liberal politician, became prime minister, and ended up releasing religious prisoners, instituting freedom of speech, freedom of religion, and freedom of assembly. When his government announced that Hungary was going to break away from the Warsaw Pact, however, the Soviet Union invaded. In the conflict, thousands of Hungarians died or were imprisoned. Nagy was arrested, tried, and executed in secret.

He was replaced by a communist named János Kádár, who created something called "Goulash Communism," which focused heavily on providing consumer goods to Hungarians. He tended to listen to advisors more than his other Eastern Bloc counterparts and wasn't nearly as hardline as the majority of others, particularly during the Brezhnev era. Overall, while the Iron Curtain was still up, Hungary was considered the most liberal and relaxed country to live in.

THE PAN-EUROPEAN PICNIC: Eventually, Hungary would become the first country to dismantle the literal Iron Curtain, taking down its border with Austria. However, the litmus test for this was the Pan-European picnic. By the late 1980s, East Germans were starting to filter into Hungary (where they were allowed to visit), but not leave. This was because Hungary, being more liberal, was allowing its citizens to travel freely and decided that they didn't want to pay for maintaining the Iron Curtain any longer. More Germans showed up in anticipation of this, and literally camped out for months, waiting for the Iron Curtain to come down so they could make a run for it.

This presented the Hungarian government with a problem. 1) East Germany would expect their citizens to be repatriated. However, Hungary's government knew that the Germans would face maltreatment if returned. However, since they had signed the United Nations' Convention Relating to the Status of Refugees, they were treating the Germans as refugees rather than renegades and were legally allowed to do so. So they didn't _have_ to send them back. 2) Cold weather would eventually set in, and if the East Germans weren't relocated, they would die over the winter. 3) If they sent the East Germans to the West, as the East Germans wanted, this would certainly provoke the ire of the East German government, and potentially get the Soviets involved again.

The solution was to organize a "friendship picnic" where the border between Austria and Hungary would be temporarily opened so that Austrians and Hungarians could "celebrate their friendship" and "enjoy Europe without borders." Also, Hungary handed out flyers to the refugee Germans, just in case. And instructed the border guards to not harass any East Germans who wanted to participate in the festivities.

It turned out that roughly 900 East Germans were very interested in "enjoying Europe without borders" and skedaddled across the border to Austria so they could proceed to West Germany. After a few tense days, it was proven that the Soviets (despite a furious East German government) were not going to intervene.

Hungary promptly tore down the Iron Curtain and over 70,000 East Germans escaped through Hungary until the GDR refused to let East Germans travel to Hungary.

CZECHOSLOVAKIA: After East Germans who wanted to leave the GDR couldn't go to Hungary anymore, they promptly filtered into neighboring Czechoslovakia, where they proceeded to camp out at the West German embassy. There were so many people (over 5,000 the first time) that it was beginning to become a hygienic issue. Czechoslovakia had zero interest in the GDR's problems, so the GDR government allowed the refugees to proceed to West Germany via sealed train. Once this had happened, another 6,000 refugees proceeded to go camp out at Czechoslovakia's West German embassy, and the GDR government was forced to do the same thing. After this, the GDR cut off travel to Czechoslovakia as well, effectively isolating itself from its neighbors.

MONDAY DEMONSTATIONS: Since flight was no longer a real option to East Germans (and there were many who didn't wish to flee in the first place, but did want change), demonstrations became commonplace. As this was around the time that China suppressed its own demonstrators with the bloody Tiananmen Square massacre, there was considerable worry around the world that the GDR government would react the same way in order to maintain its power, particularly since the Chinese response was viewed positively by the GDR government. The demonstrations attracted thousands.

THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE GDR: The celebrations of the GDR's 40th anniversary were scheduled for October 7, 1989. I leave it here because these historical notes are getting absurd and I also have to go motorcycle around the wilderness for a week. If you've read all of this, kudos to you.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October and November, 1989. East Germany grows up, becomes a spy, comes up with a distraction and looks fantastic in blue. Gilbert gets his name back. Russia puts his plan in action. West Germany steals America's motorcycle, but only because England tells him to. The Bundestag sings, and so does America. The Berlin Wall comes down.

October 3, 1989

Just like Russia's apartment back in Moscow, East's apartment in East Berlin was wired like a post-modern sculpture in order to get channels from the West. When Gilbert had launched into his habitual cursing routine when the reception naturally went out, East snorted and advised him to count his blessings: they could be living in the Valley of the Clueless.

"The Valley of the Clueless?" Gilbert had asked. He had no memory of _that_ being a part of his map back in the day.

East shrugged and tugged at the end of her braid - a habit Gilbert had noticed the little girl doing while deep in thought. (West would sometimes tug at the ends of his _own_ hair when vexed, Gilbert remembered fondly.) "Area around Dresden and up in the northeast. They don't get Western channels."

That would have given Gilbert much more to swear about, he agreed.

However, this morning the weather was clear and the reception was good. Gilbert was plastered in his boxy armchair, staring at the masses gathering in Leipzig. He'd seen this news loop at least three or four times, now, but it was impossible to grow tired of hearing the chants of 'We're no hooligans!' transform into 'We are the people!' The Western news was positively buzzing with triumphant glee over the whole debacle.

Whether or not the protesters would end up massacred or not was another issue. The newsreel switched to a clip of a little girl jumping up and down next to her mother, wearing a windbreaker and worn jeans. Gilbert's mouth twisted and he looked out the window - the sun was starting to rise.

East hadn't woken up yet. For the two days he'd been living in her apartment so far, Gilbert had been bunking on the sofa since the apartment only had one bedroom with a single-sized bed. Had he been with West they probably would have crammed into it, but East was still somewhat of a stranger.

Gilbert was contemplating helping himself to East's coffee supply when a _shriek_ echoed throughout the apartment, causing Gilbert to launch to his feet.

"East?" he asked, striding over to the closed bedroom door.

When the door slammed itself open, Gilbert froze in his tracks.

Last evening, he'd bade good night to a ten-year-old girl he was able to pick up and swing around in a circle. This morning, he was staring at a very tall - and very naked - developed woman.

Broad shoulders - West's shoulders - tapered into a curved yet-thick-set waist that gave way to the smooth swell of child-bearing hips and lead to shapely thighs and calves. Long, untamed blonde hair swirled about breasts as heavy and firm as grapefruit hanging from the branch; a cheerfully untamed patch of golden pubic hair (the exact same shade as West's) marked the triangle between her legs.

"Look at this!" East cried out, a look of consternation written deep across her features as she flung out her arms. The motion caused her breasts to sway.

"Um," Gilbert said, eyes riveted to the other's nipples. "Okay."

East rolled her eyes and dropped her arms. "What the _hell_ happened?"

Gilbert tried to recall the last time he'd seen a naked woman. Sometime in the 40s, probably. He opened his mouth. "Well, uh, you've finally grown."

"No _shit_ ," East said, running a hand through her hair and leaning against the doorframe. "What am I supposed to _do_? I can't fit into any of my clothes. Not to mention, I'm sure people at work are going to _notice_." She crossed her arms. This caused what Gilbert assumed was an illegal amount of cleavage to appear.

"I am sure that they will notice," Gilbert assured her, managing to lift his eyes to East's face for a hot second before they dropped back down to her breasts.

"Aren't you supposed to be my _brother_?" East asked drolly. "What, did you stare at West Germany this way, too?"

That caused Gilbert to laugh. "Oh, I did much more than _stare_ at him," Gilbert said. "I taught him how to fuck like a champion. Part of my duty as his caretaker, you know. But, yeah, we're not at the beach. You'll need some clothes."

East gave him a slightly despairing look before shaking her head and turning around, crossing her bedroom to get to the bedside table. This afforded Gilbert an excellent view of her ass, which Gilbert took advantage of. She rummaged in the drawer for a moment before coming up with a thick wad of cash notes.

"Go buy me some clothes," she instructed, turning around and pulling out Gilbert's hand to slap the notes into it. "I don't care what they are. Go to Karl-Marx-Allee - try GUM. I'm going to need bras, as well. And underwear."

Gilbert stared at her blankly. "You want me to buy you a bra," he said flatly.

East returned the flat look. "Yes, I believe that I'm in need of one at this point."

"I do not have words to describe how badly I am going to fuck this up," Gilbert warned.

East reached up to rub at her temples. "Fine. Just… women's underwear, and something that will cover my ass. I'll deal with the bra later." She turned her blue eyes to the side and a look of confusion and despair passed over her face, much akin to how West used to look when getting bad news from the front. "Why _now_?" she muttered.

"Why are you growing?" Gilbert asked, folding the notes over and heading to grab his jacket.

"It doesn't make any _sense_ ," East complained, retreating back into her room and coming out with a towel, which she wrapped around herself and headed to the kitchen, presumably to make coffee. "They've been trying to make me grow for _decades_ , and it never happened. Nothing. _Now_ I'm growing, when it's all on the brink of falling apart?"

Gilbert didn't answer right away - the news was going through its loop again, and Gilbert looked at the screen in time to see the little girl in the windbreaker jumping up and down to the background chant of 'We are the people! We are the people!'

"I think it makes more sense than it doesn't," Gilbert called over his shoulder to the kitchen, before tugging on his shoes and heading out into the crisp autumn morning to buy unfamiliar womanly garments.

# # #

October 6, 1989

It had taken Germany a while to get used to her new body. First of all, her center of gravity was all off-kilter - it was lower in her new body as compared to her child's body. Secondly, weight had been distributed in an altogether disorienting fashion. It still felt strange to have her thighs brushing together as she walked, and the sway of flesh at her chest took a _lot_ of getting used to.

Surprisingly enough, Prussia wasn't a poor eye for fashion, even limited by what Germany's shops had to work with. He'd come home that first day with three dresses, all in shades of blue.

"I detect a theme," she'd told her counterpart dryly, who winked.

"Prussian blue," he had said innocently, sumac-red eyes amused. "West always looked stunning in it. I have a feeling you'll pull it off just as nicely. Brings out your eyes."

She'd picked up the white one with the blue flower pattern on it with a raised eyebrow.

"Who doesn't like cornflowers?" Prussia'd said cheerfully, and Germany was beginning to realize why everybody thought he was a total dick. He even managed to be a dick with flower symbolism.

It was the cornflower-patterned dress that Germany wore to work that day. She'd gone to deliver some paperwork to her boss to find that - oddly - the door to his office had been left wide open.

Usually her boss kept the door closed so he could concentrate more fully on his work, and if he wasn't in the office, the door was closed for privacy. Curious, she looked carefully to either side of the hallway - nobody there - and stepped in.

With the paperwork under one arm, she casually walked over to the desk to place it down. Quickly, her eyes flickered over the paperwork left on the desk. The top paper was a missive from Mielke, head of the STASI.

When Germany saw who it was from, she made a face. Mielke had always been courteous enough to her, but she'd always found him… squirrelly at best. Her eyes flickered down to the missive, reading upside down.

_Hostile groups have already achieved power and are using all methods to change the situation so that it is favorable to them. Our situation is very much like the situation in China earlier in the year. We must be ready to counter with all means and methods. The Chinese leadership succeeded in crushing protests before they became out of hand._

Germany bit her lower lip. They hadn't _told_ her about any plans, but ice filled her veins.

Stepping carefully around to the front of the desk, she shifted through the other missives - most of them pertaining to the 40th anniversary celebrations slated for the next day. Surprisingly enough, many of them detailed honored guests that had rejected invitations, and events that would need to be abandoned due to foreseen demonstrations.

It was all coming to a head.

Footsteps sounded from down the hall, and Germany quickly put down the papers she'd brought and stepped out of the office, her cornflower dress swishing behind her.

# # #

"I'm glad you could find the time to meet with me," Russia said loftily, bringing the cup of steaming tea to his lips. "I fear that tomorrow we won't have much time to talk."

Gilbert, with his own cup of cheap instant coffee, stared at Russia incredulously. Russia obviously knew that, at the moment, there wasn't much on Gilbert's plate other than trying to figure out East's cup size. "Yeah. My pleasure."

Russia chuckled. "So, what do you think of the situation here, hm?"

Gilbert's eyes instinctually flicked left and right; activity in the café went on normally. "That's a rather loaded question, don't you think?"

"Not at all," Russia said, sitting back. "It's obvious that the regime here is going to fall. Probably within the year, at most. Unless they plan on killing off half the population. Such a thing is easier in China, where there's considerably more population to work with. It would be far more obvious here if a few tens of thousands of Germans ended up with bullets in the back of their heads in the name of Communism. A bit harder to sweep that under the rug."

The slight note of regret in Russia's voice put Gilbert's teeth on edge. "Shut up," he snapped. "It's not funny. Maybe _you_ like putting your people through a meat grinder, but--"

"I don't," Russia said, his voice suddenly getting the edge of frost in it that always stopped Gilbert's heart dead in its tracks. "I enjoyed it about as much as _you_ enjoyed gassing a few million of your own."

Gilbert's mouth twisted. "What the hell did you want?" he asked stonily. "Fine. It's all over. Unless they kill everybody. Which they might. Is that what you wanted to talk to me about? The obvious? Or did you want to talk about the stupid shit we did to ourselves in the name of backassward ideology?"

"I did want to talk with you a bit about the obvious," Russia said, putting his cup of tea down on the plate. One hand slid into the pocket of his oversized coat, where he jangled something absently. It sounded like keys. He looked up. "You do know why I've brought you here, yes?"

Gilbert was quiet. "I don't," he admitted.

Russia snorted. "This is over," he said after a moment. "I haven't been abiding by the Warsaw Pact for a while now, and for good reason. This is over, and the socialist state in Germany is finished. The writing on the wall is about as obvious as the graffiti on the inner German border." Russia lifted a hand and drew absent loops, a pantomime of a graffiti artist. "Your boss - or whomever the new boss will be - isn't going to be able to hold power. Or, at least, they won't without the help of my tanks, which they won't be getting."

"He's not my boss," Gilbert said immediately. "I don't have a boss. I'm not a nation."

Russia raised an eyebrow. "He's not your boss," Russia said, nodding in agreement. "But you're still a nation. You're a bigger fool than I ever took you for if you think you aren't."

Gilbert looked wordlessly down at his coffee.

"When nations are no longer nations, they no longer exist," Russia said with a shrug. "You still exist. The wheels are in motion. It's clearly happening - maybe Miss East Germany's boss can't see the signs, but I don't need a watch to tell the time. Speaking of her, I hear that she's suddenly become a fine young woman. Overnight."

Gilbert's gaze flicked up again. "She has," he admitted.

"Somehow I don't think that's due to the state of her economy," Russia said with a wry smile. "From what I hear, it's worse off than mine. So, obviously, it's something else that's making her grow." Russia's lip curved up in a smile.

Gilbert was silent for a long moment. "You brought me here to end this," he said.

Russia inclined his head. "Even if I were _interested_ in suppressing this, I literally cannot afford it," he said with a shrug. "I am not a fool. I'm ready for this to be over as much as everybody else is. And if Germany is going to reunify - which it looks like it will - _all_ of Germany has to be there. I have a distinct feeling that with you here… things will happen very quickly."

Quiet, Gilbert leaned back in his chair, and looked out the window at the pedestrians going past.

"I also have something of yours," Russia said, after the silence had extended for a moment. "If I'm returning _you_ , I may as well return _it_."

Gilbert's head turned in time to see Russia pull something out of his pocket and place it on the table.

It was his iron cross necklace.

Eyes widened, Gilbert looked up at Russia for a surprised moment before reaching out a hand to retrieve the treasured object, which he had assumed Russia had pawned for vodka by this point. Before he could grasp it, though, Russia's large hand reached out and grabbed him by the wrist.

"What's your name?" Russia asked, purple eyes flat.

"Gilbert Beilschmidt," Gilbert responded automatically, raising an eyebrow.

Russia raised an eyebrow in response. "Your other one."

There was a moment of silence. "Prussia," he said.

At that, Russia had nodded and rose from the table, turning and walking out the café without another word: an empty teacup marking the place where he'd sat. Prussia turned his head and watched Russia walk down the sidewalk and away from the café, the end of his scarf blowing absently in the breeze as he turned the corner.

His eyes shifted back to the necklace, which he slowly picked up from the table. He curled his fingers around it in a fist, pressing the fist to his mouth.

"My name is Prussia," he repeated, lips brushing against his fingers, necklace chain brushing against his wrist.

As he said it again, and again, and again, he knew it to be true.

# # #

October 7, 1989

Germany was pacing back and forth in his living room. It had been nearly impossible to concentrate on work that day - the news was abuzz with the demonstrations yesterday, and what was going on today over the Wall was no less than a small miracle.

Fear had hit him in the chest like a bullet when he'd gotten word that Western media had been banned from attending the anniversary celebrations. The entire day he'd been buzzing on caffeine and functionally useless until his boss ordered him from the office, telling him to go home to rest. They'd need him in Bonn soon.

"Rest" was hardly a word in Germany's vocabulary as it were, and he sure as hell did _not_ want to leave Berlin to go to Bonn at this point. But orders were orders.

Most of the video footage that Western media had been working with was through official East German channels: typical shots of soldiers marching in line, with stony-faced crowds watching the proceedings, East German banners fluttering from apartment complexes.

It had gotten more interesting the longer the newsreel ran, though. What had started off as a perfectly-organized socialist celebration quickly showed the cracks in the façade. Pristine images of marching soldiers started to break up with decidedly non-patriotic chants: 'Gorbi, Gorbi, Gorbi,' could be heard intoned in the background, a distant bell toll.

'Gorbi,' or Russia's boss, looked decidedly uncomfortable in the grandstand, while Russia looked serene and implacable as always. East Germany's boss was looking a bit long in the tooth, and East Germany herself--

Germany hadn't seen his twin for several long years. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised to see she'd grown up, but she had. And she still looked exactly like him. Her expression was serious, but distracted.

Looking at her face, Germany slowly slid to his knees before the television set, reaching out a hand to brush her pixilated face. He wondered how different things would have been had she chosen to jump over the wall that day, so long ago.

"Things could have been so different," Germany breathed. Not that he knew anything about raising a child, but Prussia probably hadn't either, and--

The clip on the screen abruptly changed to one of the crowd, and suddenly Germany's finger was touching the image of a white-haired man, scanning the area with a familiar gesture, eyes two blurry pixels of unmistakable red--

Germany's heart nearly stopped.

By the time his brain registered what - or, more pointedly _who_ \- he was looking at, the clip had switched again.

He was alive.

He was _here_.

Overcome, he buried his head in his hands and spectacularly failed at staunching the silent tears of relief he'd been waiting decades to shed.

# # #

October 8, 1989

The attitude in the office that day had been decidedly tense. Germany was uncomfortable walking through the hallways - she'd spent most of the time in her own office.

The 40th anniversary celebrations had not gone as intended. Germany herself had been _shocked_ at the sheer audacity of the youth chanting for Gorbachev to help them, and the number of arrests had been staggering. Most of them had been released at this point, but it was still unnerving. Everything was hanging by a thread.

After a few more moments of absently slapping her pencil against a blank piece of paper, Germany couldn't take it any longer and stood up.

If anybody asked, she told herself, she was going to fix herself a cup of coffee.

Hopefully nobody asked, as the way to her boss' office was in the _opposite_ direction of coffee, but if nobody asked, she wouldn't have to lie.

This was unwise.

The door to her boss' room was closed, as usual, but it was obvious that the light was off: none was leaking out from under the closed door. Germany didn't think that her boss had a tendency to sit around in the dark, so she casually pulled the door open.

Nobody there. Okay. After a moment, Germany sidled into the room, closing the door softly behind her. The desk was clear.

After a moment of standing silently, holding her breath to hear if any footsteps were coming down the hall, Germany went over to the desk and started to open the drawers. The unlocked ones contained regular office odds and ends: a rolodex, pens, pencils, calculators, rulers, paperclips.

The last drawer was locked.

Flicking her eyes up to the door again - nobody there - Germany carefully bent down and pulled a couple of pins from her braid, shoving them into the lock. Of course, she had no real experience with this, but it couldn't be _that_ hard--

The door opened.

With a bolt of fear searing her nerves, Germany did the only thing she could do - scuttle under the desk and stay as still as possible. She held her breath.

Brown loafers walked into her vision, and she could hear a _thud_ of paperwork hit the top of the desk above her. With a heavy sigh, Germany heard her boss mutter, "…deal with this tomorrow," before the loafers moved out of her line of sight. She could hear him grab his coat from the hook, before the door to the office closed and Germany could hear the lock to the door turn.

When the footsteps went away, Germany exhaled unevenly, rubbing her face. _Now_ she had to figure out how to get _out_ of here, but--

She crawled out from under the table and looked down at the manila envelope her boss had dropped there. Considerably less worried about discovery, she sat down in the office chair and opened the envelope. Inside was a _thick_ stack of paper, with the word 'Shield' written on the cover page.

Brows furrowed, Germany leafed through the stack. It appeared to be a list of names, thousands and thousands of names, sorted into six categories…

It wasn't until she got to the end of the stack when it made sense. _Specific provisions have been made for isolation and internment camps to contain anti-state elements…_

Germany's blood went cold. In a very clinical and precise fashion, the documents outlined everything, from camp locations to camp etiquette to arrest procedure. These were plans to detain tens of thousands of her people for an indefinite period.

 _Is this 1989 or 1939?_ Germany thought, horrified. She flipped to the last page.

 _Details for nation personification_ , it was headlined.

 _So,_ Germany thought, reading through the detailed list of how they were going to handle her 're-education', _me as well._ The document also mentioned a 'Gilbert Beilschmidt' suspected of being the lost personification of Prussia.

 _My apartment's been bugged_ , Germany realized. There was no other way the humans would know about Prussia. She hadn't mentioned him at work, and took care not to mention him in public. The two had never been seen together and never left the apartment at the same time.

When she had finished leafing through the documents, Germany carefully replaced them.

She ended up leaving her boss' office through the window and down the fire exit. At this point, Germany was pretty sure that she'd been seen, but if they could move quick enough it wouldn't matter.

# # #

Prussia had been at home, pacing back and forth restlessly and watching the news. He'd been in the crowd when everybody had started chanting. The feeling sluiced through his veins like pure pleasure - these were his people, yes, of course they were, demanding things as powerfully as they had back in the day with swords and bayonets.

They were _his_ , he was _theirs_ ; his identity stretched beyond dissolution, beyond boundaries. _He was still here_.

 _The awesome Prussia_ , he thought, letting a smile curve his lips. _So awesome I don't even need actual borders to exist_.

Yeah. That was pretty awesome--

His train of thought was derailed when the apartment door flew open and cracked against the wall behind it hard enough to leave a dent. His head spun around to see East, kicking the door closed like she was straight out of a kung-fu movie.

Prussia opened his mouth to ask the question, but was derailed when East's blue eyes seemed to pierce right through him, and she deliberately reached out to yank out the tie holding her braid in place, causing her hair to swirl around her like a blonde cloud.

"What the hell--" Prussia started, but was derailed _again_ when East tugged her dark blue dress directly over her head, throwing it on the floor, leaving her there in plain white panties and a bra that was probably slightly too tight, because Prussia was pretty sure average bras weren't supposed to make the wearer look like a beer wench.

"Fuck me," East ordered, face set in the same determined expression that West got whenever he had to lead soldiers into battle.

Unable to process this quickly enough, Prussia stared. " _What?_ "

"You understand German just fine," East said, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and slamming him into the wall with enough force to expel the air from Prussia's lungs. "You. Have sex. With me."

Prussia opened his mouth to try and let another single-syllable question word leave him, when he felt East's lips against his ear. "They're going to come arrest us tomorrow. I've got more information, but the room is bugged; we need a distraction." She pulled back, and raised an eyebrow.

Prussia's mouth opened, and about a billion questions filtered through his head, the primary ones being _arrest us for what_?and _We could just turn on the television really loud, you know_.

However, turning on the television loudly would require changing the channel to something not-illicit, and it was such a bitch to tune back into the Western channels. Fucking was indeed a noise-making endeavor that was less effort. "Have you, uh, ever…?"

East rolled her eyes. "No. But you said you taught The Other how to fuck like a champion, right?"

Prussia chuckled. "Ksesese… you're a lot less demure about the whole thing than he was, I'll give you that," Prussia said, amused. He leaned in. "This will be easier in the bedroom," he murmured, voice a low roll. "On your back. Easier to talk that way."

Prussia could feel her shiver slightly at the low vibration of his voice into her ear, and his lips curled up in a smile.

Just like West. His hands reached up and cupped her breasts gently, starting to massage them curiously through the faux-lace of the bra.

Well. Maybe not _just_ like West. He could feel her breath stutter slightly at the touch: she gasped when his fingers moved to the front of the bra and started to knead at her nipples through the material. "To the bedroom, then," he announced, loud enough for any planted bugs to pick up on.

"So long as there's more of _that_ ," East stipulated, her face pink with sensation, following him into the room. "And you take off _your_ clothes, too." She got on the bed and leaned back onto the pillows.

"Impatient," Prussia said, tugging his own shirt off his head. "Though I'm afraid I'm not much to look at in comparison. I'm not sure why this piece of land managed to produce two golden-haired Adonises and one scrawny albino."

East was looking at his naked torso with curiosity and her blue eyes didn't stop their inquisitive journey when he divested himself of his pants and underthings. "I like the way you look," she said, lifting one large shoulder in a shrug. "It's interesting."

"If you're anything like West, you'll like my cock even more," Prussia said with a wicked grin, causing her to roll her eyes. "I'll make this good for you, I promise," he said, voice a little softer. He crawled on the bed and leaned over her shoulder, like he was about to start kissing her neck. "If we're fucking for the government's pleasure, they need to know damn well the awesome they're dealing with."

That caused East to snort, but her body _shivered_ again as his lips _did_ start to work at the sensitive junction between neck and shoulder. A low groan escaped her. "They're planning on picking up tens of thousands of us," she moaned lowly, her pelvis starting to lift off the bed slightly. "We have to get out tonight."

"Tonight'll be a night to remember!" Prussia announced loudly. One hand reached down to trace along the seams of the panties, and, to his somewhat-surprise, there was evidence of wetness starting to appear already. Curious, he gently pressed his thumb against the material where her clitoris should be, eliciting a moan as she pressed down against it.

"Will you _hurry up_?" she asked through clenched teeth. "I don't have _all night_ and neither do you!" This was punctuated with a meaningful glare that caused Prussia to laugh.

"It's not like we have any place to be," Prussia pointed out in a reasonable, loud tone. He leaned forward again to press a kiss against her ear. "Where are we going to go?" he asked in a low rumble, his other thumb absently and lightly massaging East between her legs, tracing the path from her clitoris down to the vaginal opening and back with a curious thumb. The material of her underwear was starting to dampen noticeably.

"Leipzig," she muttered back, beginning to squirm under the motions of his thumb. "Where else?"

Ah, if you were going to leap out of the frying pan, it may as well be directly into the fire. Prussia admired the logic. Of course East would want to participate in the demonstrations. No point in holding back now.

No point whatsoever. Speaking of which, Prussia took the opportunity to lean forward and press his face directly into East's obscene amount of cleavage, his tongue darting out to taste the skin there. East released a strangled noise and one of her hands reached out to fist in the back of his head.

"Enough of that!" she demanded, her hips lifting up off the mattress. "God, would you _stop wasting time_?"

"No," Prussia said, smug and ignoring East's annoyed look. "It's called foreplay. Take off your bra. I will no doubt find a way to break the damn thing."

Rolling her eyes, East arched her back - pushing her breasts up into the air, which was a decidedly nice view - and soon the elastic snapped outward, releasing her breasts from their confines. East sighed with visible pleasure as she tossed the bra against the wall.

"Not used to it yet?" Prussia asked sympathetically, leaning down to brush his nose along the lines that the too-tight garment had pressed into soft skin.

East shivered, goosebumps rolling down the curves of her body as her nipples tightened. "Not at all," she responded. "Not used to a lot of things, really. But, god, you're taking too--ah!"

Prussia smiled around the nipple he'd taken into his mouth, giving it a few pointed sucks before releasing it and flicking his tongue across the tip. "You complain a lot. Your brother was far more obedient." This was true - Prussia still remembered his first time with West like it was yesterday. It was… in some ways, very similar to this, with West's body arching and gasping and pleading with his eyes while Prussia made him wait.

West had probably been more verbally silent since he'd been raised with Prussia as an authority figure while East had met him as a vaguely confused drifter that Russia had dropped off. No matter, these things could be remedied.

"I'm not very obedient," East murmured, face bright pink as Prussia's tongue scraped delicately over her other nipple.

Prussia smiled. "Oh, I'm sure you _can_ be if it gets you what you want," he purred, leaning forward to pull the teased bit of flesh into his mouth as his hands moved to knead into those soft, curvy, wide thighs.

"Never has," East muttered, her head starting to toss back and forth on the pillow as Gilbert flicked his tongue back and forth like an impressionist painter would a brush. A low, helpless groan escaped her.

He released the nipple with a pop. "Oh, it does when you're working with _me_ ," Prussia assured her. "You can just ask West."

"Figures he'd be a good little boy for you," East said, panting, flushed, and well on the way to being completely undone.

"Oh, he is," Prussia said, allowing his tone to tilt toward warm - East's eyes opened and blue eyes focused on him. Apparently she liked that tone of voice just like West did. He reached up a hand and cupped her cheek, running a thumb along her nose. She allowed it. "I make it worth his while." He smiled. "I'll make it worth yours, as well. Now. Spread your legs."

Unsurprisingly, East complied with the demand, pulling the material of her now-very-damp panties tight between her legs.

"Very good," Prussia intoned, getting a little shiver to go through East's body.

God, this was almost too perfect. Of course, it was a bit too early to tell if East had similar submissive leanings that West did, but the _idea_ of it was very, very, very appealing.

After brushing his lips against the corner of her mouth, Prussia slowly moved downward, pressing kisses against East's throat, her collarbone, both nipples, her navel, and finally just above the waistband of the panties before moving lower, letting his breath run hot against the material, still moving ever lower.

He took a moment to breathe in the thick, humid scent of female arousal, a scent he hadn't experienced for a long while. After a moment, he leaned forward and his tongue scraped against the wet cloth of the panties, feeling the fleshy folds of East's labia beneath him.

At the touch, East's thighs visibly trembled. "Oh _come on_ ," East moaned. "I'm going to _die_ if you take much longer!"

 _No, only be arrested_ , Prussia thought, amused. He hummed in response, before his tongue started to massage a slow, wet circle around East's clitoris, dampening the thin material of the panties even further. East's noise of protest was almost too delicious - she pressed down insistently against him.

"Take them _off_ ," she demanded after a few moments, and when Prussia's eyes flicked up he could see that the red of her blush had spread down her neck and over her chest.

"Hmm," Prussia purred, but did pull away, getting a disappointed noise from East. "Soon…" he said thoughtfully, shifting forward.

The panties were still in the way, but it was pleasurable to rub his cockhead against the slick material, allowing himself to feel the warm bumps and curves of her genitals against the sensitive skin. He was fully hard by now - it would be impossible not to be. "Soon that'll be in you," he promised lowly.

"How about _now_?" East suggested, reaching forward for Prussia's nipples. Prussia saw this, though, and intercepted her hands, pinning her wrists back to the bed.

"Ah-ah-ah," Prussia admonished breathlessly. "Did I give permission?" His hips were still working slowly, sending shocks of pleasure up and down his spine at the slow, torturous drag of sensitive skin against wet, soft cotton.

East fixed him with a glare that was not at all forceful in her current state. "I don't _need_ your permission for anything," she bit out, but it was notable she didn't fight her wrists being pinned.

"Of course not," Prussia said, eyes fluttering closed as his hips worked up and down once more. "But you really should let me do all the work this time. You just lay back and enjoy."

This made things more acceptable, or, at least, Prussia could feel some of the angry tension leave East's body. "I'm going to finish before you even start, at this rate," she muttered instead.

Prussia grinned. "That's the idea," he told her.

When she shot him a confused look, Prussia laughed, and reached down, removing the now-thoroughly-soaked piece of cloth separating them. "Your first time, you probably won't come from penetration," Prussia explained, shifting downward again. "If you were a man, I wouldn't even attempt it. But you're not; makes things a little easier in that regard… but, still…"

Once lowered, he settled himself on his stomach, and reached forward with a finger, gently tracing around the outer labia curiously, making East shudder. He blew a cool jet of air against the heated, damp skin, and East's thighs trembled, trying to clench together.

"Ah-ah," he scolded again, lightly, the finger moving to swirl and tease along East's sensitive, very wet opening: pushing the finger inside provided clenching, velvety-smooth walls that made his cock thud in anticipation and East whimper.

Running his tongue around his mouth, Prussia leaned forward and pressed the flat of his tongue greedily inside East's labia, the tip resting against that clenching opening with the top slowly applying pressure to the clitoris, tasting the rapid-quick motion of the pulse buried there.

East's head tipped back and her feelings were made obvious when her pelvis bore down onto his face, clearly wanting more. After a moment, Prussia slowly pulled his tongue upward, until the tip of it could flick meaningfully against her clitoris.

"Ah!" East cried out, wincing. "Ow!"

"Don't suffocate me," Prussia admonished, earning him a grumbled apology. Prussia soothed over the sensitized bit of skin with a gentle lick, before stiffening his tongue to apply proper pressure and start building the rhythm in a circular motion.

It didn't take very long before East's pelvis was trembling and shifting anxiously; she was clearly trying not to push down on him even though her body desperately wanted to. Prussia hummed and reached forward, his hand curling fondly around one muscular, curvy thigh.

"Oh, God," East panted to the air, her entire face and neck flushed as blue eyes lolled aimlessly, floating on pleasure.

"Mmm," Prussia replied with a slurp. Really, oral sex on men and women was not that different. The mechanics required a slight different approach, but the basics - a gentle beginning becoming rougher and more insistent, the shifting and pleading of a strung-out body, the heat, the taste of musk and slick of fluid, the tightening of muscles, the loss of control, the noises--

East suddenly convulsed and a rush of fluid painted Prussia from nose to neck, as Prussia changed the angle of his movements to keep pace with East's mindless gyrations, following her until her body stopped spasming and she slumped into her own wet spot.

"Mm, very good," Prussia said, slowly shifting up to give East some time to breathe - her chest heaved as her lungs demanded air, but her eyes hazily opened after a bit. "Good for you, then?"

"Acceptable," she panted, a small smile crossing her features.

"Good," Prussia returned, leaning forward, and grabbing ahold of his cock to position at her entrance. "Now for the next part…"

When he pushed in, both groaned. Prussia had actually intended to take his time with the entry, but East was just so _wet_ that his little push seated him in to the hilt. East didn't seem to mind, though: she was so loose and lubricated that the sudden entrance only served to roll her eyes back into her head and thrust her pelvis up.

" _Ah_ ," Prussia said, his eyes squeezing shut. The last time he had penetrated _anybody_ was that last time with West, so long ago… and the last time he'd been with a woman was prior to _that_. The sensation was different: not as tight as anal sex would have been, but warm and wet and inviting, the ribbed muscles of East's insides gripping and stroking him as he started a slow, circular rhythm that always worked a treat on West.

The results didn't seem to be off-base with East, either. " _Ah_ ," East echoed him, her hands reaching up to clench at Prussia's shoulders. "Yes… yes, _faster_ …"

"Demanding," Prussia said, but acquiesced to the order. Leaning on his forearms to give him leverage, he started to _smack_ his hips into hers, the familiar sound of penetration filling the room as pleasure arrowed up his spine. "How are we going to get to Leipzig?" he muttered in East's ear, distracted.

East let another low, breathy moan vibrate from her chest. "Train," she rumbled between clenched teeth. "Stole petty cash from w…. _work_ , won't notice until… too _late_ …"

Prussia laughed breathlessly. "I like the way you think," he told her, before twisting his head and pressing his come-slick mouth to hers, patiently building the rhythm.

East took the kiss eagerly, letting it become sloppy, blue eyes fluttering aimlessly in her head, adrift on sensation and separated from the voices that never shut up in her brain, so much like West, yes, so beautiful, just like West, just like East--

Prussia's brain fogged as completion hit him, hot seed painting East's insides as East groaned at the sensation. He tucked his head against her shoulder to ride it out, and East lifted a hand to rest against the back of his head until his body finished its pleasure and he simply rested atop and inside her, softening.

"And if we were human, this is when we'd worry about pregnancy," Prussia muttered, eyes still closed.

East snorted. "One problem I don't have," she said, slumping back against the bed.

Prussia chuckled and forced himself to pull out, which made both of them wince. "Only clothes for the journey, then?" he murmured into East's ear. "I'm already packed."

It was true. Prussia had kept his clothes neatly stacked in the bag since he'd been at East's. East nodded.

"Yeah. I'll need a shower, but then we can go," she said, nudging him off her so she could sit up.

They looked at each other for a moment. "Acceptable, then?" Prussia asked, reaching down to retrieve his clothes.

There wasn't an immediate reply, so Prussia looked up to see East looking at him, an odd half-smile on her lips. "It was awesome," she told him, and bounced off the bed.

"Heh," he said. "No false advertising here!"

"Don't let it go to your head," East advised. She shut the door to the bathroom before Prussia could reply, and Prussia smiled at the sound of running water

# # #

They caught the last train of the evening to Leipzig, tense and quiet as they huddled in the back of the compartment. The entire train was noiseless and dark, other than occasional blinding lights as they went through silent cities.

"Where are we going to stay?" Prussia muttered into East's ear. He was no stranger to sleeping outside in less-than-luxurious conditions, of course, but he hadn't seen a single drifter since he'd been in East Germany. Sleeping in a doorway, aside from being vaguely unpleasant, would likely attract unwanted attention.

East was frowning out the window, as if she could divine the future from the passing scenery. "The Nicolaikirche is where the demonstrations are headquartered," she responded, just as quietly. "I'm not sure if they'll offer lodging, though. They might know somebody who can help…" she trailed off hopefully. After purchasing the train tickets they had a few marks left to their names, but not enough for a hotel. Most of East's savings had been spent on her new clothes.

Prussia sighed, sitting back in his seat and rubbing his head. After a pause, he could feel East's hand reach out and rest over his own, slightly clammy with sweat and nerves. Prussia gave it a squeeze.

Leipzig was quiet at the late hour they arrived - almost too quiet, the silence before the storm. Prussia took a moment to weigh the tension in the air before reaching for East's hand. Together, they walked the short distance to the church. The spires of the building reached high into the sky, a hulking gothic creation at rest.

The doors were unlocked, and Prussia's eyes traveled up the tall palm-frond columns and over the lines of silent, white pews. East let go of his hand, walking forward to the two men standing at the alter - they had stopped whatever they were doing at the sound of the opening door. From their attire, it was clear they were the pastors.

"Good evening," East said, with Prussia walking silently behind her.

"Good evening," one of the pastors responded, raising a careful eyebrow. "Have you come to pray?"

"Of a sort," Prussia responded, his lip ticking up.

"You're a bit early," the other pastor responded, voice a bit wry. "Tomorrow at 5pm is when _that_ particular service starts."

East cleared her throat. "Yes, and that's our--"

A door at the back of the alter opened, revealing an older man. When he saw the two nations, his white eyebrows raised. "My God," he said, getting the attention of the priests as well. "I… didn't think I'd ever meet more of your kind."

Dead silence. East and Prussia looked at each other before looking back at the man. He was dressed plainly in a white polo shirt and brown slacks, blue eyes strikingly alert in a wizened face. "Our kind?" East asked.

The man stepped forward. "During the war," he said, and both pastors turned to look at him - 'the war' only meant one thing, and Prussia was well-aware it was a taboo subject rarely spoken of. "During the war. I…" his lip twisted. "There's a Russian one, isn't there?"

Both Prussia and East were silent - East's eyes flicked over to Prussia, clearly confused. Prussia's mouth fell open slightly in an attempt to respond, but he couldn't think of a single thing to say.

"There is," the blue-eyed man said, continuing his slow walk forward, down the red-carpeted stairs of the alter. "Tall. Broad. Red Army officer." His eyes went to the side. "Strange… purple eyes. I've never seen the like before or since."

After another long pause, Prussia reached out and grasped for East's hand, his own beginning to sweat. "Bernd Ditzen," he said, apropos of nothing, running on the latest of a crazed line of hunches that brought him here in the first place.

The blue-eyed man paused, and reached up a hand to cross himself, from left to right, in the Lutheran fashion. "I haven't heard that name in decades," he said, voice low. "Do you…?"

"He died in Vorkuta," Prussia said, his grip tightening on East's hand - this time, East squeezed reassuringly, looking at him. "The gulag. Shot during an uprising."

The man's eyes closed, regret and sorrow written across his features. "I thought as much," he said lowly. "I will send his family a letter with the news. It's… not much, but it is closure."

"Who are these people?" one of the pastors interrupted suddenly, slightly pale in the face. Prussia knew that his human form looked far too young to have been a prisoner of the gulag.

"They're the German ones," the man said, as if that made any sense to the pastors. "Something big is going to happen. When they arrive, lives change. The Russian one…" his eyes went distant, "…the Russian one saved my life, in a manner of speaking."

"That may be overstating it slightly," Prussia muttered, causing a small smile to flick into life on East's mouth.

"So, you are here," the man went on, ignoring the befuddled looks of the pastors. "A bit early."

"We need a place to stay," Prussia said bluntly. "I'm Gilbert Beilschmidt. This--" he pointed to East, "--is Veronika Beilschmidt."

The man nodded. "…do your kind marry, or…?"

"Siblings," East said, shaking her head. "Our brother is on the other side of the Wall."

"Soon to be united once more, as is proper," he said with a nod. "You have come to the right place." He finished walking down the stairs of the alter, and stopped before the pair. "I am Johann Lange," he offered. "You should come with me." He stepped around them and continued to walk toward the exit.

Prussia and East looked at each other, and looked at the pastors, who were staring openly. "I'll be twice godammned," Prussia muttered, tugging East after him as he followed Johann out the door of the church.

# # #

Impressively, Johann was the proud owner of a Trabant, which he ushered Prussia and East into with great fanfare. He drove them out to Markkleeburg, where he lived in a small house, apparently alone. However, a few pictures littered about the place indicated that a wife and children were at some point in the picture.

Johann fixed an informal tea with boiled potatoes and chopped radish, apologizing for not having more food in the house. East and Prussia, being ravenous, were more than pleased with the offerings, and ate the potatoes sliced and dressed with quark, linseed oil, salt, and chives.

Johann seated himself across from the pair as they devoured the dinner with single-minded intensity. "Forgive me, but my curiosity is getting the better of me," he said, once both nations managed to slow their consumption to a more moderate rate. Johann's hands were seated firmly around a steaming plastic mug of tea, bright cheerful red. "What exactly _are_ you? Naturally, I won't tell anybody since they will think me insane."

East and Prussia exchanged a look, and East slowly swallowed her mouthful of potato. "We're nations," she said after a moment. "People, but nations. I'm East Germany."

Johann nodded slowly, and his eyes traveled over to Prussia. "And yourself?" he asked. "I assume your brother over the wall is West Germany."

Prussia chuckled. "I'm Prussia," he said, inclining his head.

"And you were in the prison camps with Bernd?" Johann asked, looking bemused.

Prussia sighed. "After the war… well, prior to the end of it, I ordered West to defect our unit and head to the Western Allies," he explained, feeling absolutely bizarre explaining this to a human. "I was taken by Russia, the one you had the misfortune of meeting when he was in a _very_ foul mood. He… or, rather, I suspect, his boss--"

"His boss?" Johann inquired.

"Stalin, at the time, I assume," East explained, and Prussia nodded.

"Yeah, Stalin." Prussia paused and took a sip of his tea. "I am pretty sure that Stalin didn't want me returning back home, and he also didn't want me housed with the other German POWs, so I was sent into the regular gulag. That's where I met Bernd. I'm… not sure how he ended up in the regular gulag myself." His eyes shifted off to the side. "I never asked."

Johann nodded slowly. "So your last boss was Hitler?" he asked.

Prussia took a breath, and nodded. "He was. And I'm about as proud of the association as anybody else is, at this point." Which was, clearly, not at all.

"Fascinating," Johann commented, folding his hands over the still-steaming mug of tea. "So, there are three personifications for Germany, right now?"

Both nodded.

"What's going to happen when the Wall falls?" Johann asked simply, eyes slowly moving between them.

There was a moment of silence. East turned her head to look at Prussia blankly.

"We don't know," Prussia said, after the pause had extended.

That night, on Johann's folded-out couch, Prussia held East close, as close as he'd ever held West, staring solemnly over the crown of her head as she slept.

# # #

October 9, 1989

It turned out that Johann was an elder at the Nicolaikirche Lutheran congregation, and after a breakfast of buttered toast they all went directly back into the Trabant to be driven into Leipzig.

"These meetings have been going on for a while, now," Johann explained as he lead the pair into the back room behind the alter - an office. "For at least ten years… but attendance has gotten… ah, to the point where the church literally cannot hold all the people."

East, dressed in her cornflower dress, crossed the room to look out the office's window. "It's swarming with riot police out there," she murmured.

Johann nodded. "Last month, Fuehrer and Wonneberger… the pastors you met yesterday… got picked up by the STASI and told that they had to stop holding the meetings."

Prussia raised an eyebrow. "But they haven't?"

Johann raised a shoulder in a shrug. "You can't stop a boulder once you've pushed it down the hill," he said. "Also…" he tipped his head back and forth. "This is Leipzig, not Berlin."

"Meaning you're less likely to get hauled up to Karl-Marx-Stadt," East murmured, crossing her arms. "Where the STASI prison is," she explained to Prussia's confused look.

"You probably know it as Chemnitz," Johann offered, when Prussia's confusion refused to abate.

"Why the hell did they rename Chemnitz?" Prussia asked, suddenly incensed.

East deadpanned. "Riot police outside, we might all get shot tonight, secret state police prisons overflowing… and you're upset they renamed Chemnitz."

"Chemnitz is a perfectly fine name!" Prussia protested. "Karl-Marx-Stadt? Why don't you just name the place 'Communist-Kiss-Ass' and have done with it?"

"They probably don't want to have the STASI prison located in Communist-Kiss-Ass," Johann pointed out reasonably, though it was clear he was trying not to laugh. "I'm reasonably sure the government is allergic to irony."

East, on the other hand, was poorly concealing her giggles behind a hand. "We're all going to prison," she said, shaking her head.

"Very likely," Johann agreed with a nod, stepping outside to gather more paperwork.

# # #

At 4:30pm, the church started to fill.

And fill. And fill.

Prussia and East had been sitting next to Johann in one of the front pews, but ended up giving their seats up to the elderly as more and more people kept filing in.

"This is insane," Prussia muttered to East, who simply reached out and grabbed his hand. As the crowd grew and forced them toward the alter, they looked like any other young couple, waiting for the sermon to start. After a period of time, Prussia leaned forward and rested his head against East's - she leaned back into him.

At 5pm, the church could literally hold no more, and through the windows Prussia could see the overflow congregating out on the lawn, and into the street. One of the pastors - Fuehrer - moved to the podium and began to speak. Prussia wasn't listening - he couldn't. The vibration in the air was simply too electric; both human and nation senses were set to the boiling point.

When Fuehrer stopped talking, Prussia felt much like he used to before mounting his horse and careening into battle - but this time there was no horse, no tank, no gun, no sword, nothing.

Somebody handed him a candle, a poor excuse for a weapon if there ever was one, and the mass started to move outside, past the Augustusplatz - also crammed with people - and around the ring road.

"How many people do you think are here?" East whispered, her voice vibrating like a tightened violin string, blue eyes huge in a pale face, highlighted by the candle she held.

Prussia looked around, feeling trembly himself. "There's… there's got to be more than… I don't know, thousands, just, thousands…"

Traffic had been stopped on the ring route. Drivers were abandoning their cars to join the march. People were pouring out of buildings. The trams were blocked. People were streaming in from the side streets. Around the ring the mass went, past the STASI headquarters, around to the train station--

Riot police started to encircle the perimeter, thousands of them, and Prussia hadn't been in a gathering this large since the great rallies of the 30s. But this was entirely different.

"They're not going to shoot," East muttered after a moment, looking over at the riot police with sudden wonder painted across her face.

"You may be a bit premature…" Prussia warned, wincing as hot wax dripped onto his hand.

"No," East said, a smile starting to spread across her face. "No, they're not going to shoot. They're not going to!"

There was a brief moment where the crowd stopped, held up by a line of police, helmeted and armed - Prussia reflexively gripped his candle like the hilt of a sword - but the police stepped aside.

The crowd moved forward.

"They're not going to shoot," Prussia realized, voice weak.

They didn't.

# # #

"They didn't shoot," Germany said, staring blankly at the footage on the news. "They… they didn't shoot."

Suddenly he was _clapped_ \- more like _beaten_ \- on the shoulder by an overly-enthused American. "You're gonna need a bigger apartment soon, dude!" America said, big white grin plastered across his face like he'd just won the lottery.

Germany looked at him. "Just because they didn't shoot at a protest doesn't--"

America rolled his eyes. "Trust me on this one. Martin Luther King Jr., yeah?"

"What does--" Well, actually, that was a dumb question. "All right, I see the parallel you're trying to make."

"Ayup," America said, bobbing his head. "See, what happens _now_ is that everybody in East Germany sees this, realizes that people didn't get shot, and _everybody_ turns out because the ones that were scared before won't be scared now. Then, more and more and more--" America rotated his fingers over themselves to indicate a rolling ball, "--and soon nobody can stop it, and-- _boom_ \--" America's large hands came together in a thunderclap of noise, "--one day you wake up, and everything's different."

Germany watched this illustration, a bit bemused. "You have a way of making nonviolent revolutions seem like action films."

"They're actually very exciting," America admitted, shrugging. "It's almost like being on a battlefield, but instead of, you know, guns and stuff, it's a march." He sighed. "To be honest, I wish I were there," he said. "Boots on the ground, making it happen. It's… far more liberating than all the behind-the-scenes stuff I do most of the time."

Germany chuckled and shook his head, before turning his attention back to the newsreel. "I wish I were there, too."

# # #

November 4, 1989

The protests got larger. And larger. And larger.

On the next Monday, over 100,000 people showed up. The Monday after that, over 300,000.

The demonstrations had spread out from Leipzig, as well. East's boss had resigned ("The new guy is basically the same, only with a gall bladder," East had said with an eye-roll at the news. In response to Prussia's confusion, East had to explain that her former boss had gall-bladder surgery.), and everything was, generally, fucking insane.

Particularly what Prussia was watching right now on Johann's television, on _East German television_ , no less (though Johann's television was as wired up as anybody else's).

"This is madness," Prussia said, staring out at what seemed to be half of Berlin crammed onto the Alexanderplatz, carrying signs declaring that they were the people, they wanted privileges, and they wanted change.

"Actually, I think it's the most sensible thing I've seen in a while," Johann demurred, handing Prussia a cup of coffee and sitting down next to him.

Prussia accepted the coffee with a snort and a nod of thanks. "I can't argue with you there."

Johann nodded. "Don't take this the wrong way," he said, "but what are your plans? I am absolutely not trying to run you out of the house… having you here has probably been the most excitement I've known in my life, honestly."

Prussia diverted his attention from the speeches on the screen. "I have absolutely no idea," he admitted. "I don't think that we can go back to Berlin… East said that they were going to arrest us, and supposedly a lot of other people, but… I don't think that's happened. With all this other shit going on, I doubt it _will_ , but it's probably not a good idea to go back to her apartment."

"God will find a way," Johann said with a shrug.

"Or the revolution will," Prussia countered, earning him a chuckle.

# # #

November 9, 1989

Suddenly, Germany's Bonn office was flooded with the sound of the entire Bundestag erupting into his anthem.

"Uh," he said, completely derailed from discussing currency reform with England, who was seated across from him in his office.

"Unless my ears deceive me, that sounds like your anthem," England said calmly, arching an eyebrow.

"They're not deceiving you," Germany responded, shifting a little awkwardly. "I'm just, um, not sure why--"

The door opened, revealing a frazzled-looking aide, a brilliant smile plastered across her face.

"I don't think I've ever seen a German look that happy," England remarked, earning him a _look_ from Germany.

"They've opened up the Wall!" the aide exclaimed, even going so far as to bounce on her toes. "They opened it up right now!"

"That explains it," England said, as it felt like all of Germany's blood was draining from his head and into his toes.

"Right _now_? It's open _now_?" Germany asked breathlessly, as the strains of his anthem died down and the Bundestag erupted into cheers.

"Yes, yes it is!" the aide confirmed, and quite literally skipped away from his door.

Germany managed to look over at England. "I have to get to Berlin," he said, face as white as the moon.

England raised his other eyebrow. "How exactly do you plan on doing _that_?" he asked calmly. "Can you book a flight?"

Getting ahold of his thoughts felt like trying to grasp at howling ghosts. "I don't know," he said. "I could… I could try the train…" Germany wasn't sure of his exact expression at the moment, but was reasonably sure it looked like he'd been hit in the face with a frying pan.

England looked at him, and then shook his head. "You have your diplomatic passport?"

"Yes, of course," Germany said.

England sighed. "One minute, if you would."

Confused, Germany nodded, and England left the room. Distracted and antsy, Germany started to quickly sort and organize his paperwork. A train would likely take at least a day to get there - there was no way he'd be able to book a flight this late - but it would _get there_ \--

His frantic thought process was interrupted when England came back into the room and tossed something at him, that Germany automatically caught.

Keys. Motorcycle keys.

His question was immediately answered when England stepped forward and put an old-fashioned American army helmet on the desk.

"I know it's not your style, but I'm sure you could make a stop at the local museum and pick up a pickelhaube or somesuch," England offered with a straight expression that bent into a small smile when Germany looked up at him.

"That would make me look even more ridiculous than _this_ is going to," Germany muttered, a bit shaky. "You don't think America will--"

"I'm sure Prussia would be tickled," England interrupted him, making Germany lose his train of thought and go lightheaded. "And do you really _think_ America will mind? Just don't crash it. I'll never hear the end of it if you do."

"He might mind being left behind," Germany said, already two steps to the door.

"I assume you don't want to wait for him," England said lightly. "You have a long drive ahead of you."

No. Germany didn't. He nodded. "Thanks," he said, distracted. "I know you're not much into all of this."

That made England blink. "I'll let you know when I answer to 'Margaret,'" he said, voice a little wry. "Until then, just assume that I'm more romantic than you think. Now. Go, before America figures this out and you end up with his heavy arse on the back of the bike."

Germany nodded, and left the office quickly, moving as fast as he could without attracting undue attention - no doubt his boss would want to talk to him, but for once, just this once, he was going to slip out under the radar - and quickly located America's blue BMW R65 the other had purchased back at the beginning of the decade and rode when he was visiting Germany. Slinging a leg over it, he sent a quick prayer that the weather would hold - it was going to be a long, cold ride as it was. He shoved America's ridiculous helmet onto his head, grateful that at least their skulls were the same size.

Key in the ignition. Kickstand up. Roll back. Key on. Clutch in, power button shift down throttle forward clutch out--

He shot out of the parking lot in third gear and had maxed it out to sixth even before he made it to the autobahn.

# # #

Prussia was in the kitchen making a cup of coffee when East practically ran him over.

"They did it. They opened the Wall," she said, arms braced against the doorframe like she was going to rip it straight out. "They opened it."

Prussia nearly dropped the cup. " _What_?" he asked, abandoning the coffee on the counter and following East to the other room, where Johann sat with a bemused look as the Western commentator reiterated that the Berlin Wall had opened _right the fuck now_.

"Holy fuckballs," Prussia said, staring in disbelief.

"Indeed," Johann said. "It is rather shocking."

East looked over, face pale. "We have to get back to Berlin," she said. "We-- we have to--"

At East's words, Johann stood up and went for the car keys. "To Berlin it is," he said, as if he were driving around the corner for groceries. He smiled at the two nations when they looked at him blankly. "You don't think I'm backing out on this _now_ , do you?"

"If I have a second son, I am naming him Johann," Prussia said, reaching next to the couch to pick up his plastic bag of clothes.

Johann raised an eyebrow. "What's the name of your first son?"

"Ludwig," Prussia said. "And if he's not there on the other side of the Wall to greet us, his name will be mud."

# # #

"You limey asshole," America laughed. "You _gave him my motorcycle_?"

England fixed America with a deadpan look at the insult. "I am sure he is a perfectly capable driver," he responded evenly.

America snorted. "Don't let him fool you. He _looks_ all conservative, but that man drives like a bat out of hell with Satan on superdrive. He's probably breaking a land-speed record right now." He shook his head. "Oh, very well. I guess I'll just have to go steal somebody's Mercedes since the fall of the Berlin Wall apparently heralds the end of personal property. Ironically."

England rolled his eyes and finished stacking his papers up. "I don't think it 'heralds' that at all."

"Anarchy in the streets!"

"You're being a bit--"

"The end to reason!"

"America, seriously--"

America snapped his fingers - the sound echoed, _everything_ the boy did was loud - and, somewhat surprisingly, the next words that came out of his mouth were sung in America's deep baritone.

"We're-- in-- a-- road movie to Berlin--" he sang, the low notes reverberating easily through the walls - America had a voice meant for slow spirituals. "Can't drive out-- the way we drove in--"

England raised an eyebrow and followed America out of the room and into the hallway, where a few of the humans were curiously poking their heads out of offices to see what idiot was randomly serenading the Bundestag.

"So seek out this glass of bourbon, and we'll go--" America sang, finishing the verse by pirouetting on his left foot. He aimed a grin at England. "You comin'?"

"No," England responded flatly. "That place will be a madhouse."

America snorted. "I thought you just said it wasn't going to be."

"I don't think that people will be uncontrollably committing vehicle theft, but I also don't believe it will be an orderly occasion," England said, rolling his eyes. "You should have seen Germany. It was as though somebody had short-circuited his brain."

"Can't really blame him," America said with a shrug. "Anyway, I'm going to go see if I can find a vehicle considering _somebody_ gave mine to a crazed Kraut."

England rolled his eyes again. "The only thing you would have done differently would have been to get on the bike with him. You've been wanting this more than _he_ has."

"The only people who have been wanting this more than Germany are the ones on the other side of the Wall, and even that's questionable," America replied, and England chuckled.

# # #

The ride back to Berlin seemed to take forever. Prussia was sitting in the front of the Trabant, next to Johann, but his hand was being half-crushed by East the entire way there.

It was happening. _It was happening_.

He was going to see West again.

He couldn't believe it.

As the signs on the autobahn started to announce Berlin exits, Prussia thought that East was going to break all his damn fingers, she was squeezing so hard.

"I'm not sure how far into Berlin I can take you," Johann said into the silence of the vehicle. "There's going to be massive amounts of traffic."

"Wherever is fine," East said, voice a bit tight. "You've… done more than enough as it is. We can walk."

Johann made an amused noise. "This has been the most exciting month of my life," he remarked. "I was right. When your kind show up, lives change."

"In reality, it's less about us," Prussia said slowly. "It's the humans that do everything."

"We are the people," East intoned from the back seat, with a touch of amusement in her voice.

"I suppose that's true," Johann said, carefully nudging the Trabant over to the side of the road. "Now," he said. "Get out and go find your brother."

Prussia inhaled, glancing around - he hadn't been paying attention - realizing that they were on Landsberger Allee. "We will. …thank you."

"Yes, thank you," East echoed, though it was clear from the tremor in her voice that her mind was elsewhere.

"Come visit any time," Johann said as Prussia closed the door.

For a few moments, they stood by the curb: Johann pulled away without another word. (Prussia realized he had forgotten his bag of clothes in Johann's car - but then realized he didn't really give a fuck about that.)

They watched the Trabant disappear around the corner.

They looked at each other.

"Let's go," Prussia said.

"Yes," East said, and Prussia jumped in surprise as she took off at a dead sprint down the sidewalk.

They weren't the only ones running - others were coming down the road, humans streaming in from the sidewalks and the buildings, much like they had all those nights of demonstrations, a bigger and bigger mass of humanity building up to break a wall, just like they broke the lines of riot police night after night--

Prussia's vision narrowed to East's sprinting form, her thick braid walloping against her back in tune to the fast beat of her feet, running and running toward the Wall, running away from home, toward it, it didn't matter, everything had been turned on its head and there was nowhere to go but forward--

Prussia's lungs started to hurt but as the Wall suddenly came into view, it didn't matter, nothing mattered-- the only thing that mattered was following that dress, that cornflower blue, running with abandon into its own destruction and with such joy, such pure joy--

When East crossed the border, still sprinting, Prussia watched as her feet left the ground in a running leap and Prussia wouldn't have been surprised at all if she didn't touch down again, lighter than air, called by something stronger than gravity--

Prussia was laughing as he followed the leader into the abyss, followed his sister back home, whole again, named and living and breathing and free, champaign corks somewhere popping and everybody was crying and he was there, _there_ \--!

# # #

HISTORICAL NOTES:

GUM: Pronounced 'goom,' during Soviet times it stood for _Gosudarstvennyi Universalnyi Magazin,_ or 'State Department Store.' The most famous one is located in Moscow on Red Square and is a very expensive and highly-upscale shopping mall. However, GUM stores existed in all USSR republics (sometimes they were called 'TsUM' rather than 'GUM'; Moscow has both a TsUM and a GUM, whereas East Berlin only had a GUM and Bishkek only has a TsUM). The GUM in East Berlin was located on Karl-Marx-Allee which was/is a major shopping district.

RUSSIA'S ECONOMY: When Mikhail Gorbechev became President of the Soviet Union, Russia was in trouble. The cost of the Breznev Doctrine (where Soviet forces actively intervened in the affairs of Eastern Bloc countries) had been incredibly expensive. Between the Breznev Doctrine and a variety of other economic issues, the USSR could no longer afford to maintain itself. Gorbechev was the youngest member of the Russian Politburo and was reluctantly put into office when the rest of the Politburo realized that younger leadership was desperately needed. (Gorbechev was 53 at the time of his ascension. 

The most famous of Gorbechev's attempts to reform are 'perestroika' and 'glasnost,' but in terms of the Eastern Bloc his most potent change was what came to be known as the 'Sinatra Doctrine,' where Gorbechev formally announced that the Soviets were not going to interfere in the affairs of Eastern Bloc countries any longer. This announcement in 1988 lead directly to the 'Autumn of Nations,' or the massive glut of revolutions and demonstrations that took place across the Eastern Bloc in 1989.

OCTOBER 7, 1989: This was the day of the GDR's 40th anniversary celebrations. It was supposed to be a turning point for the Communist regime, but it ended up being a political disaster. Mikhail Gorbechev tried to explain the need for change to the East German Politburo, but was ignored. Events had to be abandoned and lots of people who had been chosen to receive honors stayed away. Those who did attend broke out into chants of 'Gorbi, Gorbi, Gorbi,' entreating Gorbechev to help them with reform.

OPERATION SHIELD: Operation Shield was a plan written up by the STASI to arrest and indefinitely detain tens of thousands of East Germans suspected of anti-state activity in prison camps, implicating anybody who had done so much as attend a peace rally. After the utter failure of the 40th anniversary celebrations, the STASI sent out the order for Operation Shield to go into effect on October 8. However, it was never put into effect: STASI officials by this point were afraid of being lynched.

LEIPZIG: Home of the Monday Demonstrations, which originally started out as a small prayer group at the Nicolaikirche, or St. Nicholas Church in the downtown area. Protests against the Communist party started here and eventually ended up spreading across the entire GDR.

OCTOBER 9, 1989: The first Monday Demonstration after the 40th anniversary celebrations. The crowd was absolutely massive: 8,000 people crammed into the Nicolaikirche alone, with more spilling out into the streets. There had already been some talks between Leipzig town officials and police officials, creating a tacit agreement for no violence. Thousands of riot police were sent into the city, but the scale of the crowd was massive and had force been used death tolls likely would have been staggering. There were a few tense moments, but the demonstration stayed nonviolent and the police had no reason to attack the crowd.

The success of the October 9th demonstration lead to bigger and bigger demonstrations each week: by the end of October, the crowd in Leipzig alone was bigger than 300,000.

ALEXANDERPLATZ DEMONSTRATION: This massive demonstration took place in East Berlin on November 4, and was notable for it being the first "legal" demonstration in East Germany, allowed by the government. It was broadcast on East German television as well as in the West. Between 500,000 and a million people showed up with banners and candles. The main focus of the Alexanderplatz Demonstration was lack of real freedom of speech and assembly in the GDR; nothing was mentioned about the Berlin Wall or reunification.

FALL OF THE BERLIN WALL: Prior to the events of the Peaceful Revolution, East Germans were escaping the GDR through Hungary before the GDR disallowed travel, and then through Czechoslovakia where East Germans camped out at embassies were allowed to go to West Germany through East Germany by sealed train. This started the first wave of protests in the GDR in September of 1989, with protesters chanting 'We want out!' and some even trying to jump on the sealed trains as they passed through East Germany.

The number of East Germans trying to get to the West through Czechoslovakia was causing huge problems for both countries, so the East German government (now headed by Egon Krenz after Erich Honecker was forced to step down) decided to allow East Germans to proceed directly to West Germany in order to loosen tensions and hopefully ease the situation. The decision was made on November 9th, and was supposed to take effect on November 10th.

Unfortunately, they neglected to inform Gunter Schabowski, or the spokesman for the Politiburo, about the 'next day' part and when Schabowski was making the travel announcement at a press conference, he told the media that the new travel regulations were to take effect 'immediately, without delay.'

This was instantly broadcast all over the West, and picked up by East Germans all listening in on their wired-up televisions and radios. East Germans immediately began massing up at the wall, demanding to be let through. The border guards were bewildered and overwhelmed, but none of the East German higher-ups were willing to give the order for lethal force to be used. Eventually, the guards had to relent and East Germans began streaming through the wall in such numbers that the guards stopped checking identification because it was pointless.

So, the Berlin Wall went from Erich Honecker claiming it would stand for another 50-100 years in January of 1989 to tiny little bits of rubble by the end of November. It's one of the better stories that history has to offer up.

OTHER THINGS: Cornflowers are the state flower of the Federal Republic of Germany. Fuehrer and Wonneberger were the two pastors heading the Monday Demonstrations. Chemnitz was indeed renamed Karl-Marx-Stadt in the 1950s and then renamed Chemnitz after the fall of the GDR. A STASI prison was located there. The Bundestag in Bonn did spontaneously sing the national anthem when they heard the Berlin Wall had opened up. The song America is singing at the end is called 'Road Movie to Berlin' by They Might Be Giants, and was written in 1988, when it seemed like the wall was going to stand forever. 

Johann is the other human character from my 'Prussian Nights' story, the one Russia called 'Syrok.'


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Germanys find each other. America has a waterbed and a sledgehammer. The Germanys use one; America uses the other.

November 9, 1989

"He might not be in Berlin," East pointed out, a green bottle of champaign in one hand, lifting it to her mouth.

It had been _three goddamn hours_ since Prussia and East ran through the checkpoint, high on adrenaline. No West there to greet them. Thousands and thousands of Westerners, though - champaign and flowers were being passed around like candy and the crowd was starting to climb on top of the Wall, dancing and juggling and screaming.

"The useless fuck!" Prussia said, taking a swig of his own champaign bottle; truth be told, he was pretty sure both himself and East were well on their way to drunk by this point. "Never around when you fucking need him!"

This was probably an unfair assessment of West overall, but, still. The fucking _Berlin Wall_ was currently being climbed over and hacked to bits and generally being overtaken like a wretched spider under an avalanche of determined ants, and West _was not fucking there_.

# # #

The traffic outside of West Berlin was more than intense: Germany was forced to park America's bike in an alleyway outside of the checkpoints and merely hope that it didn't get vandalized or stolen. As he shakily climbed off the bike, he _almost_ forgot the keys in the ignition.

God, if anything happened to that bike America was going to murder him slowly, but that was definitely not the first thing on his mind. It had taken him just over four hours to get from Bonn - he had no idea how fast he'd been driving. But it had been fast.

He'd stopped for gasoline twice out of sheer necessity, but he was currently _freezing_ and his legs were shaking and for a couple of uncertain moments he thought his feet wouldn't hold him.

They did. It took him about ten minutes of hobbling to get to the nearest checkpoint - it had basically been abandoned, nobody asked for identification - and through.

The crowd was immense, screaming and swaying and laughing and crying - somebody handed Germany a rose, red and white striped. It was as if Germany was watching this from a distance, from underwater - his ears were ringing and his teeth were chattering since he had just driven for four hours at top speed on a motorcycle through November.

Clutching the rose in trembling fingers, Germany scanned the rippling mass of people and--

A flash of white-blonde hair. A thin arm raising a yellow glass bottle to its lips, and--

Germany lurched forward, feeling like Frankenstein on nearly-useless legs. "Brother," he whispered from between frigid lips. No, not loud enough, not good enough, _again_ \-- "B-brother!"

# # #

Somebody was calling for their brother - not unusual, families were being reunited like hands to gloves all over the city - but this time--

Prussia's head abruptly snapped toward the voice, causing East to turn her head over as well and--

It was him.

West was limping over toward him like he had sustained a battle wound, wearing - of all damn things - a suit with an American army helmet, holding a red-and-white rose in a pale white hand. In fact, he currently looked paler than even Prussia normally did, but none of that mattered.

Prussia dropped the yellow bottle of champaign and it shattered on the ground - most of it had been drank, anyhow, didn't matter - and felt his feet start to move of their own accord, a magnetic pull--

"West, what the _fuck_ \--" he managed, feeling literally _high_. The last time he'd seen the boy was 1945, when he'd forced a thin, half-starved visage of West into a _Volkssturm_ uniform and ordered him to defect. That waif was a far cry from this new West, broader and taller and fleshier than he'd ever been.

When Prussia approached, West suddenly dropped to his knees like he had no more energy to stand, and that inappropriately-helmeted head connected with Prussia's thighs as strong arms wound around Prussia's calves, locking Prussia into place.

"West!" Prussia managed, the syllable sounding more tortured than he'd meant it to and when did his throat get so tight! "West, would you fucking--" Prussia rapped his knuckles against the helmet - held as he was, he couldn't move at all - not to touch West, not to kneel himself because West's arms were wrapped around his calves like a vice; when he tried to lower himself West merely held him suspended in the air like he weighed nothing. "West, you fucking dope, would you _let me go_?"

West violently shook his head against Prussia's thigh, the motion smearing hot wetness over Prussia's slacks - West was crying.

The lump in Prussia's throat thickened - swallowing did nothing to bring it down. "West, West, West," Prussia repeated, voice very low and slowly softening: as he couldn't stroke West's hair when it was covered by the helmet, Prussia reached his hands lower down and let his fingers trail along West's strong jaw and up to his ears - West's skin was like touching _ice_ \- and then he used his thumbs and forefingers to gently caress West's earlobes, slowly warming the skin. "Ludwig, put me down," Prussia ordered, voice uncharacteristically soft.

This time West obeyed, and Prussia was able to slowly slide to his own knees on the concrete - West's face was red and his nose was running and he generally looked a mess. When West opened his mouth to try and talk, his teeth did nothing but chatter uselessly, so Prussia reached a finger up to press against West's blue lips.

"Shh," Prussia soothed, trying to keep the tremor out of his own voice - but his had nothing to do with the cold. "Don't talk. You don't have to talk." His thin hands gently cupped West under his strong, square jaw, brushing thumbs under West's eyes to move the tears away, like he hadn't done in _decades_.

At that West completely lost it, opening his trembling mouth to sob like a child - Prussia couldn't even remember if West _had_ sobbed like that as a child, ever - and Prussia shifted forward so he could pull West's head against his shoulder to hide it. It just didn't seem right for any stranger to view that naked vulnerability on his brother's face.

"It's okay, it's okay," Prussia repeated mindlessly, lips pressed against that thin ear, his head up against the hard pressed-metal curve of the helmet as he rocked West's limp, cold form back and forth, his own eyes absolutely flooded with tears.

Prussia wasn't sure how long they knelt there like that - in that vortex of people and _feeling_ , time seemed to not exist - but West eventually went still and stopped sobbing, though the shivers from cold and emotional overextension hadn't completely abated. Prussia opened his wet eyes - he'd been crying too, just quieter - to see East standing off to the side, a Styrofoam cup of something hot in her hands. When her blue eyes caught Prussia's red ones, she looked over at West with a little nod, indicating that the drink was for him.

Nodding, Prussia rubbed a hand up and down West's spine with a little bit of force to get his attention. "East's got something that'll help warm you up," he murmured into West's ear. "Be gracious and take it."

Prussia was well-aware with how stubborn and grabby West could get if he were in one of his moods - this probably being the strongest mood he'd ever seen, for obvious reasons. For a moment, Prussia thought that West was going to refuse as West's arms tightened around Prussia's body in protest, but then the grip relaxed and he slowly pulled away, brushing one of his hands shakily over his face as if that would banish the splotchy redness of violent tears.

East stepped forward with the white cup, a small, nervous smile appearing on her face. "Hello," she said, extending the cup toward West carefully.

"H-hello," West rasped in response, swallowing thickly. After a moment, he reached out to slowly take the cup from her hand - when he did, his other offered up the rose, almost shyly.

That made East chuckle, taking the rose in return. "Rather an unequal trade, don't you think?" Her voice was shaky - all three of them were off-kilter from the sheer emotion dominating the city.

The cup was full of tea, and West wrapped his hands around it. "I d-disagree," West said, and Prussia would have hugged him again but wanted to give him some time to get the hot liquid into his body before interrupting him with more touch.

"Drink it," Prussia urged, as West seemed more inclined to stare at East while she stared back. "You're frozen."

West obeyed, lifting the cup automatically to his mouth, his eyes shifting between East and Prussia and back again until Prussia saw his mouth begin to tremble once more and his eyes start to overflow.

"Oh, goddamn it," Prussia said, voice creaky. "You're going to get us all started again." He reached forward and started sponging off West's face and wiping his nose with the sleeve of Prussia's shirt. West had already cried all over the shoulder of it - Prussia was basically wearing a discarded handkerchief at this point, anyway. It didn't matter.

West didn't fight the touch. "I… I just…" It was also notable that his skin was starting to return to a more normal color, not so pale. He sipped at the tea again, clearly trying to clear out his throat and calm down. "I just never thought… never thought this would _ever_ happen…"

"Well, it has," East said, sinking down on her knees to join them, reaching forward to undo the helmet strap under West's chin - West was still staring at her, but moved obediently with her touches to undo the clasp. East removed the helmet and set it to the side, looking West over curiously. "You know, you're not as big as I remember you being the last time I saw you, Big Brother."

There was a pause where a small smile flitted across East's face, and - unsurprisingly - West managed to burst into tears again, but this time he was laughing as he pulled East against him, using _her_ dress as a handkerchief this time around.

East's hand was resting against West's short-cropped hair, fingernails absently moving through the slicked-back, sweat-soft strands, the rose held carefully up in her palm so as not to tangle as she, too, cried and smiled.

" _Ugh_ ," Prussia managed, rubbing angrily at his own eyes that refused to stop leaking like a malfunctioning coolant system. Eventually he gave up and leaned his head forward into somebody's shoulder - West or East, he couldn't tell - and an arm went around him.

For a few long moments, Prussia started to doubt that any of them would ever move - they would simply have to rebuild the city around their petrified forms, bound together forever, a perfect statue carved of flesh; a triad at last unified, never to be divided again.

 # # #

Eventually, West calmed down and warmed up enough to mutter his story: he'd been in Bonn and managed to drive a couple hundred kilometers per hour on America's motorcycle for a few hours, which explained the extreme cold and the bizarre helmet choice.

"Hmm," Prussia murmured, looking around - the party was still in full swing, but it was definitely getting on in the evening. "We should head somewhere a bit warmer," he suggested. "I assume you have an apartment here."

West had opened his mouth, before closing it and thumping his fist against his forehead. "I don't have my keys," he said, voice low and clearly indicating he was kicking himself.

"You… don't have your keys?" East asked, raising an eyebrow. "How did… oh, right, not your motorcycle."

"Call your boss?" Prussia suggested.

West shook his head. "I don't even know if my boss knows I'm here," he said with a sigh. "And if he does… I… probably don't want to talk with him, right now. I didn't… ask him if I could leave."

 _That_ actually made Prussia laugh. "So you stole America's motorcycle and took off without informing your boss? Man, you've turned over a new leaf of awesome!"

West fixed him with a flat look, considerably less effective than normal due to his puffy features. "England _gave_ me the bike," he reminded Prussia, but reached down into his pocket to pull out America's keys. "…ah," he said, pulling a house key out from the ring. "We… well, I have the key to America's apartment. He… won't mind." Hopefully. Probably. And it was the only option that was appealing at the moment because it didn't involve sleeping in a park or contacting anybody.

As expected, East looked a little dubious - America had been the Great Enemy for her entire existence - but Prussia hummed. "Thank God for that. Where's he live?"

"Dahlem," West said, slowly rising to his feet, the cup of mostly-cooled tea still in his hand. He took a shaky drink. "It's… it'll be too far to walk."

Prussia rolled his eyes. "I know where the fuck Dahlem is. I was in the gulag for a few years, not lobotomized."

This promptly derailed West from what he should have been concerned about: getting them to whatever posh apartment America had set himself up in because if he was living in Dahlem America was _not_ messing around. "Russia put you in the _gulag_?" he asked, sounding horrified.

"Your utter horror is a good sign, as it indicates you received preferable treatment," Prussia said, reaching forward and clapping West on the shoulder, not wanting to delve into it at this point. At all. "Look. Is the U-Bahn open now or what?"

"I have no idea," West said wearily. "It's got to be after 2am now, so probably not. I just…" he looked over at the checkpoints, which were still utterly clogged with humans, many of whom were now extremely drunk. "I don't think I'll be able to get America's bike through…"

"Just leave it," Prussia said, waving his hand, trying to get West to focus. "A cab? Somebody that we can bribe to drive us around in a Porsche? A horse I can steal? It's late, we're all half-crazy, let's just… let's just go."

Thankfully, out of all of them, East actually had some sense about her and walked up to a Trabant that managed to get itself through the thick congestion at the nearest checkpoint and bent to talk to the elated owner. After a couple of moments, she turned around. "You have Deutsche Marks, yes?"

"Of course," West called back, running his hand over his face again, before lowering it and taking Prussia's in his own. Prussia chuckled, and followed West to go smash into the back of the vehicle.

# # #

"That," West said as the Trabant drove cheerfully away, "is _not_ an automobile. _That_ is an environmental abomination of a two-stroke lawnmower--"

"It got us here," East said, a low note of warning in her voice.

"Children," Prussia interjected, looking up at the modern apartment building that looked absolutely nothing like the Soviet high-rises he'd become accustomed to. "Shall we?"

After making it through the sleek lobby of the building (there was actually a bellhop on duty), they took the gigantic elevator up to the 12th floor and stumbled into, well, a huge open apartment done in hardwood. An exposed kitchen with dusty pink countertops shared the space with a _massive_ living room sporting vaulted churchlike ceilings. Across from the open kitchen area slipcovered sofas with squishy cushions sat in front of a huge box of a television against a wall--

This was all impressive enough, but what was truly striking was the bizarre décor: the entire place was strung out with lights, plastic pumpkins, witches with green faces, gigantic black cauldrons, and fake spider webs.

"Uh," Prussia said, looking at the collection of rubber bats hanging from the ceiling.

West sighed. "America decorates for his Halloween holiday," he said, removing his shoes and putting his suit coat up on the rack. "He… I guess he hasn't taken the decorations down yet." Obviously.

"Where _is_ he?" East asked, still holding the red-and-white rose in her hand, looking a bit disconcerted at the strange surroundings.

"He _was_ in Bonn," West said, rubbing his face. "I don't know if he wanted to come here or not. I assume he won't be in until tomorrow at the earliest if he does."

Prussia had scanned the room and located what was important: the liquor cabinet, which was located next to the massive and very-pink kitchen area. Opening the honey-oak cabinetry provided, well, a _massive_ collection of bourbons and a few bottles of Riesling.

"Huh. Damn," Prussia said to himself, pulling out a random bottle of bourbon so he could remove the top and sniff it curiously.

"Brother, I… don't think we should be drinking his liquor," West said from behind him, voice a little uncertain.

It was so _charming_ to hear that voice call him that name once more. Prussia couldn't help his smile as he closed the cabinet and brought the bottle to his mouth. "Anybody living in Dahlem with _this_ much booze and _that_ big of a television set is rich the hell enough not to care," Prussia said, taking a sip of the liquid - it was warm, fiery, and very pleasingly smooth: obviously expensive.  "Besides, you've already ran off with his motorcycle, abandoned it in Communist country, and broke into his house. You're going to draw the line at drinking his liquor?"

West winced as if he didn't need to be reminded of his laundry list of sins, and Prussia felt so fond that he couldn't help but walk over, bourbon bottle in hand. When he stopped before West, West's large hands reached out for him and rested on his thinner thighs, cradling them, his blue eyes looking down, clearly still awed that Prussia was real.

Prussia smiled, and reached up a hand, cupping West's face. Prussia's thumb ran over West's fleshy bottom lip. "I'm going to kiss you, now," Prussia informed him, a half-smile on his lips.

"Please," West said, the word dropping from his mouth eagerly.

That earned West a chuckle, before Prussia's hand slid back into West's mussed hair and leaned forward, pressing his mouth to West's.

The kiss was chaste at first, a soft brush of skin; however, it didn't take West's mouth long to open with such yearning - it was as if a second hadn't passed since 1945, despite how torturous all those seconds had been - and Prussia fell into old routine, gently exploring familiar territory of smooth, slick inner cheek and tongue.

West's face was still slightly damp from his tears, but his body emanated nothing but growing excitement, now: he shivered when Prussia's hands trailed over his strong chest, but it had nothing to do with cold.

"You haven't changed a bit, have you, little brother?" Prussia asked when the kiss broke, smiling as West's cheeks immediately flushed at the affectionate address. "They kept you whole for me."

West took a shaky breath. "They broke you?" he asked, voice small. "I-I never… I always felt…" his beautiful blue eyes shifted off to the side, "…guilty…"

Prussia shook his head, his fingers going to West's chin to direct his gaze back. "I needed to be broken," he intoned quietly, a finger tracing the slope of West's nose gently. "The warring states… that's not how the new world works, does it? It hasn't worked that way… almost since you were born. War has gotten too deadly… even for the Prussia of old." He smiled, and a finger tapped West's nose. "And you were never good at it. Disciplined, yes, obedient and dutiful and everything a commander could want from a soldier… but not a creature of war. You didn't love it like I did."

West looked down; Prussia tipped his head back up. "That's a good thing," Prussia continued. "You haven't changed. You didn't need to change. You're the leader now I originally stepped down for you to be." He chuckled. "In the most backassward way I never would have imagined back in the 19th century, but… I'm very proud of you. …oh God, don't start crying again."

Too late. Tears were starting to leak out of West's eyes and at the last sentence he threw his obscenely-muscled arms around Prussia, tight enough to crush.

"I missed you so much," West sobbed into Prussia's chest. After a few moments, Prussia thumped him on the shoulder with the bourbon bottle.

"You are going to crush me to death if you don't let me go," Prussia warned, but reached forward to fondly toy with West's hair. "And wouldn't that be a terrible way for the day to end? Separated for over 50 years, reunited, and then after all that shit I went through you murdered me with your grip. Loosen up, big oaf."

West did loosen up (only slightly), which gave Prussia some much-needed breathing room. Prussia made the most of his new wiggle room by leaning forward to tip West's face up, distracting him with gentle kisses over his temples and jaw, soothing the overheated skin and coaxing West to calm down.

"Shh, shh," Prussia continued, and West's body obeyed, muscles relaxing as he moved with the caresses Prussia enticed them with. Nothing had changed; his darling little brother was just as responsive and wanting of his attentions as he'd ever been, West's body thrumming with it.

When West's lips parted in clear entreaty, Prussia leaned forward and sampled them slowly, tipping West's head to the side and plumping his lips with slow, sonorous kisses.

When West's hands started to move in slow patterns on Prussia's back, clearly fully occupied, Prussia popped an eye open and looked over: East was standing in the living room area, staring at the scene before her like it was the most intriguing thing she'd seen in her life, the rose West had given her still in her hands.

Prussia's lips twitched in amusement, even though he was using them to keep West engaged. He lifted an arm and motioned East over, as he set the bourbon bottle down on the counter behind West.

East didn't hesitate: she came when called. When Prussia paused in his attentions to West, causing West to open his own eyes, he blinked at East as if West had forgotten she was there entirely.

"I'd be rude if I didn't share," Prussia purred, motioning between the twins, implication obvious.

West's swollen lips parted and he stared at East for a long moment, as if unsure and suddenly shy. "Do you want--"

"Do you?" East asked, blue eyes clear as a summer day.

West's mouth parted, but Prussia knew it wasn't born of hesitation; it would be strange, Prussia mused, to be presented with an exact female twin of oneself. (Prussia was also aware that West had bizarre self-esteem issues with the way he looked, despite being a human pillar of masculinity; East seemed the same way, uncomfortable in her own beautiful skin even though men often rubbernecked when she walked by.)

The process of learning to love oneself never was so literal, Prussia mused as the two blonds engaged in a staring contest.

Eventually, East leaned forward slightly. West inched forward in response, and suddenly they were kissing: a slow, hesitant maneuver where both seemed to be afraid of running the other off.

Finally, one of West's arms moved to wrap around East's middle, and the other did the same to Prussia, greedily pulling them both toward him in a clear sudden surge of desire. The kiss between East and West deepened, and East's hand reached up to snatch at West's collar.

Just when the twins were pressing into each other with such overwhelming force Prussia was half-sure they were going to join by virtue of their skins melding, the kiss broke; both East and West panted as they looked at each other and looked over at Prussia.

"Please," West said, quickly reverting to his blunt, raw style of speech he fell into when sex was imminent. "I want…" His eyes shuttled between East on one side and Prussia on the other.

"You want to have sex with both of us at the same time," Prussia supplied helpfully, barely repressing the urge to high-five the universe. "So… I know _you_ haven't had a threesome--"--indicating East--"--but have you gotten up to anything creative while I've been gone, West?"

West shook his head, a slight blush appearing over his features.

East and West both looked at him, clearly waiting for him to organize and direct the situation.

Prussia figured that this was karma paying him back for all that gulag bullshit. He was going to take karma up on it immediately. "Right. Well, does America have a _bed_ anywhere in this place? Or do you just want to fuck on his counters? I have zero preference." This could be happening on _the moon_ for all Prussia cared.

West's blush deepened while East looked at the countertops curiously as if weighing the merits of Prussia's suggestion. Bless them both. "The bedroom is over there," West said, clearly stating his preference and jerking toward a closed door next to the gigantic television set with his chin.

Prussia hummed and stepped away, motioning for the other two to follow. Footsteps on the wooden floors indicated obedience.

America's bed was predictably ridiculously luxurious: a huge mattress easily big enough for three dominated the space: it was covered in pillows and multiple blankets alongside duvets in dark shades of hunter green, navy, and mauve. It had a hulking carved headboard with rattan backing and built-in-shelves. The thing looked like something one of Prussia's old kings would have slept on, with the exception of the bizarre box-like structure that surrounded the bed.

West, however, was apparently familiar with this setup, and went to the side of the bed to flip a switch on with a sigh like he'd rather not.

"What's that for?" East asked, also curious about the strange bed that needed a power switch.

"This is a waterbed," West said, reaching a hand down to press against the mattress - it did, indeed, ripple and move like it was full of water. "If… you don't turn on the heat, it's not very pleasant."

East's face screwed up incredulously. "That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen."

"It is," West said with solemn agreement.

There was a moment of silence as all three of them stared at the contraption, and then Prussia shrugged.

"It'll work," Prussia said, wanting to get back to the situation at hand. Both West and East looked up at him attentively. "I'll start with you in the suit," Prussia said, motioning West forward. "Rules: _you_ , finish as much as you want--"--pointing to East--"--and _you_ don't finish until I say," he said, pointing to West.

West and East looked at each other for a moment. "That hardly seems fair," West objected, stepping forward as indicated.

"Biology isn't fair," Prussia retorted, reaching out and running his hands along West's strong chest, under the suit jacket with a sigh.

"But I can do the same thing _she_ can," West protested, clearly hung up on the inequity of orgasm-sharing.

"You can come multiple times without needing a break," Prussia said drolly, hands pausing in surprise when West nodded.

"France taught me how," he explained. "It's tantric sex."

Prussia wasn't sure what the expression was on his face, but whatever it was made West's lip tick up in amusement. "You asshole," Prussia finally said, hands dropping to his own hips. " _That's_ what you've been doing all this time? Tantric sex? In a fucking ridiculous bed made of water?"

Even East was looking amused at this point. West chuckled. "Figured it was a better use of my time than what I was doing through the 40s."

"That is not untrue," Prussia said with a sigh. "All right, fine. As many as you can, then, but if you end up holding up the party I'll be displeased."

West nodded, indicating his understanding, and then obediently relaxed beneath Prussia's touches as Prussia traced West's ear, his jaw, down his chin, and over his chest once again. Prussia turned to East, who was watching with a rapt look on her face. "Be sure to watch," he told her primly. She nodded.

"I'm not sure how comfortable you'll be with narrating sex, but West really likes it when you tell him exactly what you're going to do to him," Prussia went on, and, on cue, West flushed. "So, to start, I'm going to take off his coat…" Prussia reached forward, and West shifted so Prussia could remove it; there was a chair in the corner where Prussia draped the coat so it wouldn't wrinkle. "And then his tie…"

Once the named item had been removed, Prussia paused, smiling as West licked at his bottom lip in anticipation. "Then I'm going to remove all his clothes," Prussia said, looking West straight in the eyes, "…I'm going to re-acquaint myself with his body, tie him up, and set him down so he can wait and watch while I do the same thing to _you_." While he was still looking West in the eye, he pointed at East. "Though I won't tie you up. You'll need your hands."

"I seem to be… unfairly targeted…" West said, but his cheeks were sporting a solid red blush, now, and his breath was quickening - he was clearly keenly interested in the plan.

"I only bind you because you crave it," Prussia purred into West's ear, low and authoritative, making West shiver deliciously. Prussia could taste the vibrations of want.

Speaking of taste, Prussia went right back to West's lips, intent on kissing them back to aroused plumpness as his hands roamed brashly over West's body, over the thin slacks and thinner dress shirt, exploring the familiar planes of flat chest, angled hips, fleshy thighs - all the while keeping his eyes locked on West's face.

Emotions of all sorts were starting to flick their way across West's visage and his eyes seemed loathe to leave Prussia's, even though they would occasionally flutter closed at the massage.

"Turn around, bend over, and grab your ankles," Prussia instructed lowly after a moment, when West's face was entirely red.

In order to execute the demand, West had to spread his legs slightly. Prussia's mouth watered as the other obeyed the command wordlessly, pulling thin dress material tight across well-defined ass muscles that Prussia could shift his hands over, teasing the sensitive skin where thigh met torso, pressing light touches all over West's thighs; trailing fingers up West's bent spine.

At this point, West was bent forward facing the foot of the bed, and East - blue eyes wide and a flush across her own face - was staring hungrily at West's bent body. Prussia pointed to the foot of the bed.

"Sit there, East," he said, naming her so that West wouldn't be confused by the order. East nodded, and sat on the edge of the monstrous waterbed, the red-and-white flower still clasped between her hands innocently as she watched what was about to become a very not-innocent scene.

"West, stand up," Prussia said. Now, East was sitting at the edge of the bed, mere feet away from West, facing each other, while Prussia stood behind.

Prussia's hands went around West's torso and reached up, starting to undo the buttons of West's dress shirt slowly, carefully spreading the material apart for East's eyes. West's face was as red as a tomato by this point - his eyes were locked on East, whose eyes were advancing with Prussia's hands as Prussia worked lower and lower down West's row of buttons, tugging the tails out of West's belted slacks when he got all the way down.

"Nice, isn't it?" Prussia asked, his right hand pressing back up West's toned torso to tease at a nipple. He could feel West's breath stutter in his throat. East was still staring and merely nodded in response. Prussia nuzzled up against the back of West's tight neck. "You're all right?" he murmured, wanting to check.

"Y-yes," West said, stuttering when Prussia popped the button on his slacks, and undid the belt, reaching down - Prussia smiled. West was already half-hard and he made a strangled noise at the touch of his brother's hand. "Brother…"

"It's been too long," Prussia said, and West nodded, hips jerking slightly as Prussia teased him with too-light touches. Prussia's eyes fluttered closed with pleasure as he rested his head against West's strong shoulder, one hand starting to pump him with a firmer rhythm as the other rested on his flat, muscular stomach.

It was all so perfect, really it was. West's hips were starting to move in time with Prussia's hand, and Prussia could taste his pulse fluttering like a hummingbird's wing at the junction of his neck.

After a few blissful moments he opened his eyes to see East openly gazing at the visage in front of her, face flushed nearly as red as West's. Prussia smiled at her and deliberately raised a hand to swirl a finger around one of West's nipples. West _tensed_ and then shivered.

Once West had risen to total attention in his hand, Prussia hummed and pulled his hand from West's pants, nuzzling him fondly when West made a disappointed noise. "Not yet," he said, making sure that his hot breath would roll across West's nape.

With his hands free, Prussia made short work of the rest of West's clothes - removing the shirt to drape over the chair with the coat and tie, tossing the belt on the seat of the chair, and carefully removing West's trousers and underthings, which West let him do without a word of complaint, stepping out of them when Prussia bent down. They also went over the back of the chair.

"What do you think, East?" Prussia asked, running a finger along one of West's black socks, tall and tugged up his muscular calves. "Socks on or off?"

"On," East said immediately, eyes snapping down.

Prussia chuckled. "Ksesese… as you wish." He rose, leaving the socks. "All right, last bit and then I'll have to set you down for a bit, West… hands behind your back."

The only thing on hand that was practical for the binding was West's belt (unless Prussia wanted to tie him up with Halloween decorations, which Prussia really didn't), and it took a couple of tries since the holes in the belt didn't line up appropriately for binding West's wrists in a traditional manner. After a few false starts, Prussia put West's arms perpendicular behind his back and bound them laterally.

"That'll work," Prussia said, stepping around to West's front to admire him - flushed and aroused, naked but for somehow-obscene black socks pulled almost up to his knees. Prussia smiled and leaned forward, taking West's mouth again.

West's kisses were becoming slightly more insistent due to his growing excitement, and Prussia indulged him for a few moments before pulling away. "Go sit," he ordered, pointing to where East had been perched - she looked like she might vibrate off the bed, she was so excited. "You might want to help him down so he doesn't slip," Prussia suggested, since the floor was slick, West was wearing dress socks, and he currently was without the balance his hands would normally provide.

At the command, East rose instantly - that red-and-white rose still in her hand - and slid her hands under West's elbows, providing stabilization while the other sat down. West's head was tipped up at her, and once he was safely seated on the wide rim of the waterbed, they stayed staring at each other for a long period, clearly transfixed.

Prussia let them hover there for a few moments, before clearing his throat. "The look he's giving you means he wants a kiss," he clarified for East, knowing that East would have no way of interpreting West's approximately nine million silent signals yet. "Go ahead."

West blushed, but East just nodded and leaned forward, pressing her lips to West's, her hands becoming a bit more bold and moving down West's torso quickly, clearly curious--she put the flower down--

"Mm!" West exclaimed into the kiss as East suddenly wrapped a hand around his cock and gave it an experimental stroke. West then jerked away with a grimace when East tipped her head and tapped West's cockhead with her other hand in interest like she might tap a microphone to see if it was functioning.

"Ksesese," Prussia chuckled. "Don't do it that way - he's too sensitive for that."

"Oh, I'm sorry!" East said, abruptly releasing West, making him flush and gasp once more, his nipples tightening from the array of sensations inelegantly assaulting him. The whimper he released made East cringe. "Sorry, I've… never done this before…"

Okay, time for a slight change of plans. "Don't worry about it," Prussia said, sliding in before this could take a negative turn. "Here, I'll show you."

One of the advantages to the waterbed, Prussia realized as he quickly considered positions, was that it was going to have more give than a traditional mattress, so West would be able to lay on his back with his arms pinned beneath him without pain.

First, he went over to West and soothed him with a kiss; an expert touch stroked his cock firmly until West was shivering with pleasure again rather than acute discomfort. "All right, East, let's help him lie down on his back."

While West, considering his impressive abdominal structure, probably could have handled lowering himself on his own, the help of East and Prussia allowed him to do it effortlessly, and the look of bliss that appeared on his features as his eyes shuttled between Prussia and East made Prussia smile.

"Good," Prussia went on. "Does America have lube in here?"

West nodded. "On the shelf in the headboard."

Prussia raised an eyebrow and looked up. There was only one shelf on the headboard. And it was out in the open. And there were at least twenty bottles of lube just sitting there.

"You know, when he was younger, that fucker was the biggest prude on the face of the planet," Prussia said. "A puritan. Now he's got Lubes-R-Us just sitting out on a shelf above the fucking sex bed." His expression flattened as he looked over at the collection. "And one of them is a bottle shaped like a bullet and called _Gun Oil_."

"Don't use that one," West advised. "It's only for use in the shower. Otherwise…" here, he gave a weak chuckle, "…it's… _too_ slippery _._ "

"That sounds like it's got a story behind it I don't need to hear," Prussia muttered, getting another chuckle out of West and a bemused look from East. "Which one is best, then?"

West craned his face back to look at the shelf. " _Penchant_ is good for anal sex. _Liquid Silk_ for, um, just using your hand, the basics. A lot of those are flavored so… whatever you want for that. _NaturOil_ is warming. The one in the blue bottle is just, um, regular massage oil."

"Capitalism," East remarked. "At home, if they made a desert into a socialist country, there'd be sand shortages. Meanwhile, Western capitalists on waterbeds have endless lube selection."

"And little brother seems to have become quite a connoisseur," Prussia said, grinning at West's blush. "All right. Um. Can you use the warming stuff on your penis?"

West flushed further, simultaneous looks of pleasure and embarrassment flashing over his features as he nodded.

"That means he _really_ likes the warming stuff," Prussia clarified for East, making West roll his eyes (still blushing) and East nod seriously, like she was being instructed in a foreign language she'd need to know. "All right… you get back to kissing him… touch his nipples, too, but gently, more gently than you'd do your own. Us men are delicate creatures, you know - we're more sensitive."

East nodded, and shifted so that she planted her forearms deep into the bed on either side of West's face - the water rippled. "I _am_ sorry about earlier," she said. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

Prussia watched as a smile crossed West's face. "You didn't hurt me," he said, and the look of mutual tenderness that passed between them before East leaned down to work her lips against West's was almost too much.

As the twins started to move against each other, Prussia dripped some of the lube into his hands, bemused as it _did_ start to warm his palms, a pleasant tingle. "West, bend and spread your legs," he instructed. West groaned into his kiss with East, East who currently looked like she was going to try and eat West's tonsils, and he obeyed, shifting his legs apart and back.

Humming in approval, Prussia reached forward and started to slowly massage at West's pelvic bone and down around his legs, trailing lube gently behind him with his fingers.

It didn't take long for West to be shivering, and Prussia hadn't even touched his now-straining cock: when East moved lower and started to lick and kiss and lip at West's nipples, West was flushed bright red and starting to moan, his hips thrusting up into the air, making waves rock the waterbed gently.

"Mm," Prussia said, eyes half-lidded, feeling his own pleasure thud in the confines of his pants. "All right. East, I'm going to have you take over this part and I'm going to start stretching West. Take a look."

West made a strangled noise of pleasure in the background, and East turned her head attentively to watch the way that Prussia's hands expertly worked West's cock, stroking long and firm with his right hand, grip tight, thumb closing smoothly over the head on the upstroke, his left hand gently holding the testicles and smoothing over the wrinkled skin with his thumb. A few moments of this had West _shuddering_ on the bed, starting to gasp - and Prussia pulled his hands away, making West _groan_.

"Not too hard, right?" Prussia asked with a grin, and East shook her head. Prussia motioned for her to hold out her hands, and dripped some lubricant onto them. East rubbed her hands together and with a determined look on her face she reached for West's engorged sex, stroking more firmly and smoothly this time. West voiced his pleasure with another breathy moan, and Prussia smiled.

Adding more lubricant to his own hands, he carefully swirled a finger against West's exposed entrance, shifting so that he could lay down against West's side as he lazily started to probe at the pucker there - with East working on West's cock, it was easy to concentrate on teasingly fingering West open with flitting fingertips and blunt nails; West was completely undone at this point, bright red and warm against the heavy, pleasant mass of the waterbed rocking beneath them.

When Prussia had gotten up to two slick fingers massaging West's insides - though deliberately avoiding the prostate area… even though West sounded confident about his tantric-whatever, this was _much_ more stimulation than he was probably used to - West seized up around Prussia's fingers and his hips gave a powerful thrust into East's working hands.

Prussia's eyes jerked down to see West's cock pulse in East's hands - she stared at the appendage with wonder - but other than a few small spurts of come, nothing else emerged and West stayed hard. Panting, flush, and undone, but still hard.

"Well done," Prussia said, impressed despite himself.

West gave him a distant smile, clearly floating far away from himself at the moment. Prussia smiled back and favored him with a kiss, continuing to work him open.

While Prussia was distracted with West, there was a sudden pulse of movement from East's position on the waterbed - Prussia looked up to see a blue dress sail through the air to slap against the wall, and East was kneeling on the bed in too-tight bra and panties, arms akimbo.

"My turn, now," she said, flushed, a slightly annoyed look on her features.

"The last couple of months have made you bold," Prussia said, amused. "All right, all right… uh… okay, hm… okay. You go hands and knees over West… high up enough to where he can get your nipples in his mouth. Take off your bra and panties - he's tied up and I don't want to take my fingers out of him.

West - still flushed and panting and clearly recovering - had turned his head to watch East disrobe with interest. Prussia laughed as his eyes widened once East had shed her bra.

"Yeah, they're pretty nice, right?" Prussia asked wickedly, which made West blush and look away. "He can be a little shy around girls," Prussia told East with a shrug. "For some reason."

"Oh," East said, kicking off her panties. "Why? You do like women, right?" She moved to arrange herself as Prussia instructed, so that her breasts were hanging just above West's face.

"Y-yes," West said, and even though Prussia couldn't see his face (West was being buried in cleavage), Prussia laughed at the dazed tone and shifted back down, himself.

"All right, West, get to work," he instructed, not bothering to hide his amusement. He moved his fingers in West a little bit, and East groaned lowly as West obeyed Prussia's orders.

Shifting himself so as not to strain his wrists overmuch, Prussia kept one hand working West to looseness while his other reached forward and started to run gentle fingers along East's labia, making her gasp and shiver, throwing her head back. "Fingers," East ordered tightly. "In me."

"Second time fucking and you already sound like an old pro," Prussia said, but twisted his hand - his thumb started to tease at her vaginal opening while his first and second fingers twiddled around her clitoris.

"Ah!" East said, her hips shifting back as West released one of her nipples with a _pop_. " _Ah_!"

Shifting further - Prussia was, at this point, _very_ grateful for the waterbed as it allowed him to drive a knee unnaturally deep into it so he could pivot and improve his angle without disturbing West - Prussia twisted his head and leaned down so he could take West's cock into his mouth.

Privately, Prussia thought he deserved some sort of Sexual Olympic award for this, thrusting fingers into West's increasingly-loose opening with one hand (up to three now), working fingers around East's _very_ wet clitoris and thumbing the soft wet interior of her vagina with the other while bobbing slowly around West's cock, which throbbed and leaked copiously into his mouth.

If Prussia were being honest with himself, though, the sheer raw _noises_ West and East were currently producing was compensation enough. East was starting to thrust down with earnest, causing Prussia's fingers to make squelching noises that nobody could care about, and West was moaning openly around East's nipples, his ability to conceal his pleasure completely gone, East was throwing her head back and--

Her body seized as a thin noise escaped her lips - as her vagina tightened in orgasm a rush of fluid left her, soaking Prussia's hand and dripping down hot onto West's chest below.

Also becoming steadily more unbearable was Prussia's _own_ pleasure - every movement caused his clothing to scrape against his uncomfortably-hard cock; it was becoming impossible to ignore. Being in charge of the scene required control, though, particularly with _two_ to monitor and this being such an important event.

Patience, Gilbert, he told himself, slowly removing his hand from between East's wobbly legs, pumping his fingers a few more times in West's entrance (the fingers moved easily; West was so aroused and lubed there was next to no resistance), and he nodded.

"All right, position change," he informed the dazed twins; Prussia noticed that East _had_ moved already. She had shifted down, and now West and East were kissing mindlessly, their mouths finding each other over and over again - East had dropped down to her forearms and had one hand fisted in West's hair, kissing him over and over as West shivered up into the attention, his hard cock thrusting into nothing now that Prussia had removed his mouth, his unbound legs digging absently into the waterbed like he was _trying_ to get up but couldn't be bothered since what he really wanted was already there.

Prussia watched this for a few moments - he probably could have watched it forever, the slow drag of lips and flesh, the human interpretation of a forcibly separated whole finding itself reunited.

His lip ticked up. "Let's finish this," Prussia said after a moment, and put a hand on the swell of East's hip. "East, move off him."

East _did_ comply, but merely crawled off of West, still kissing him - West stretched his neck back to follow her. When she shot Prussia a look, her eyes were blue and hazy as they continued to work against West's.

"He's going to fuck you if you'll let me move him," Prussia informed her. "Want that?"

"Mm," East said, holding her last long kiss with West before breaking it. "Yeah. You?" she asked, looking down at West.

"Yeah," West replied, voice distant and low.

"Glad we're in agreement," Prussia said. "East, back on hands and knees - spread your legs."

She acquiesced, her body making the bed undulate once more. Once she was positioned, Prussia leaned down and helped a completely out-of-his-head West sit up, and then kneel - moving him was difficult due to his comparative insentience, lack of balance due to the bindings, and the slick material of his black socks held little purchase on the equally slick blankets. Despite this, Prussia managed to get West appropriately knelt between East's spread legs.

"Brother," West said, chest heaving, hair plastered to his head with sweat, "y-your clothes, I--"

"I'm dealing with it right now," Prussia informed him, quickly stripping out of his own shirt and pants, removing his socks so he'd have better leverage on the bed. "Now, let's…"

Carefully, Prussia took West's cock in hand and guided it toward East's spread, wet vagina - the slick socks were actually helpful, now, as it allowed Prussia to urge West forward easily.

When West was seated entirely into East, both groaned and East arched her back like a cat, her head lifting in ecstasy.

"Brother," West whined, his voice higher-pitched with pleasure. "Brother, please, I need--"

"You are _just_ as bad as she is," Prussia said, situating himself behind West's own pair of spread legs. "Last time I heard patience was a still a fucking virtue and-- oh, _Christ_ you are fucking _tight_ \--"

West was. He was every bit as good as Prussia remembered, and on the slow push into West's body it took every ounce of control not to shoot - he was almost over sensitized.

West's bound hands, pinned between Prussia's body and his own, reached backward, stroking Prussia's torso as well as he could, causing pinpricks of sensation to arrow through Prussia's body, and Prussia had to bite his lower lip _hard_ to maintain control.

"All right," he said, mostly to himself. "All _right_ …"

He started to move. The waterbed started to wave, which turned out to be helpful because it helped the rhythm. West, spread and bound, had almost zero leverage to thrust on his own volition, but Prussia's thrusting along with the momentum of the bed beneath drove West's hips forward into East's; East _groaned_ her approval and started slamming her hips back into West.

This essentially sent West ping-ponging back and forth between being impaled by Gilbert at one end and impaling East at the other, helplessly sliding back and forth on slick socks and propelled by water, lubricant, and mutual thrusting.

It was one of the most bizarre sex positions that Prussia had ever the pleasure of enjoying, but it was also _effective_. The bed was sloshing, everybody was moaning, West was helplessly jerking back and forth like a marionette on strings, his mouth lolling open and eyes rolling back, while East was slipping down onto her forearms, muffling her cries into the mattress and Prussia was going to fucking lose it, he was going to fucking lose it--

"I n-need--!" West said, voice a tortured plea, "Please--!"

Oh, right. He was technically under orders not to ejaculate.

"Fucking finish, just fucking--" Prussia said, cut off by a decidedly unfeminine _groan_ ripping from East like a live thing was jumping out of her chest as her body _seized_ in the familiar patterns of--

An instantaneous chain reaction started-- West's body tightened up to impossible levels of heat and tension and he cried out his own pained final orgasm, and Prussia's vision simply went white as sensation sent him into the stratosphere and he came like it was the god-damned end of days.

Some time later, he managed to pull out of West and flop onto his side with a _thud_ into a water mattress that jiggled like the ridiculous thing it was. Another _thud_ indicated that West had fallen beside him - Prussia _did_ have the presence of mind to pull his arms out from the binds.

He had the presence of mind for nothing else, though, and with all the lights on, the door to the living room open, clothes all over the place and a rocking surface below him, he passed out.

# # #

There was some vague shuffling that half-pulled Prussia out of slumber, but he didn't _really_ wake up until a _very_ loud American accent pierced the air with an _Oh Jesus H. Christ, are you fucking kidding me?_ in English that nearly echoed off the walls.

All three occupants of the bed were awake immediately, to see America standing at the foot of the bed looking at them incredulously. Dawn had broken the horizon - America's alarm clock said that it was almost 7:30 in the morning.

"It's not what it looks like," Prussia said, mind not operating fast enough to even switch to English. This despite the fact that all three of them were passed out and entirely naked on a bed that still had clear evidence of wet spots all over it.

" _You_ have _his_ come dried on your face," America informed him, switching over to German and pointing to West. "And unless you can explain how it got there during Platonic Naked Naptime, I'm pretty sure this looks like massive amounts of fucking _in my bed_."

East's eyes were nearly bugging out of her head - after all, the nation in front of her was supposedly the root of all evil and he'd just caught her in a very compromising position - but even though she quickly tugged up blankets to hide her nakedness, she paused to look amused at the bizarre accent America produced. When she turned her head, Prussia noticed that the red-and-white rose was now stuck in her hair.

"You sound like a Bavarian choking on a cowboy hat," Prussia said.

" _Vergelt's Gott_ ," America said, flashing him a _look_ and making Prussia snort. "And the entirety of goddamn Germany appears to have completely forgotten about the concept of 'personal property' and also 'not fucking in my bed uninvited.' _Speaking_ of personal property," America sighed, directing his attention back to West, "where's my bike? I didn't see it in the spot."

Silence. West, East, and Prussia gave each other side looks.

America's expression grew flatter. "Germany. Where the fuck is my bike."

West's eyes dropped down to the surface of the waterbed. "Um. East Berlin."

There was a beat of silence - both West and East had their eyes riveted to the surface of the waterbed like it was the most interesting thing in the world. "So… let me get this straight," America said, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "You take my bike without asking, drive it halfway acrossboth Germanys to abandon it in East Berlin, and then come back to my apartment uninvited to drink my liquor and fuck on my waterbed."

West looked like a puppy who'd had an accident. Prussia was having a hard time not laughing his ass off.

"I honestly don't know whether to give you a high-five or fucking punch you in the nuts," America informed him.

"We can leave," West said, clearly not able to think of a single thing to say.

America snorted. "No. This is what we're going to do. _You_ assholes are going to do all this laundry because I don't want to sleep in a sea of German spunk tonight. If you're going to go for 'German Reunification Part 2: Electric Boogaloo,' do it somewhere you can mop. I expect a new bottle of Maker's Mark in my cabinet and a 1990 BMW R100GS in my parking spot _by the end of the day_." At the end of this speech, America crossed the room to the clothes bureau and pulled out - of all damn things - a gigantic sledgehammer.

"Is this where you threaten to break our kneecaps, like in the movies?" Prussia asked, a bit intrigued as to why America would be keeping a sledgehammer where he kept his clothes, but, well, this didn't seem the time to be asking.

"No," America said, slinging the sledgehammer over his shoulder. "I'd rather go help break down the Berlin Wall. _Far_ more entertaining. And besides, I know a more effective threat." He leveled West with a _look_. "I have the keys to your house," he said. "If I don't get my demands met, I am going to jizz in your coffee pot. Capiche?"

The color drained from West's face. "You wouldn't." 

Prussia's head turned between West and America, watching this bizarre display. " _Are ya feelin' lucky, punk_?" America asked, switching back into English so he could drawl appropriately. "And for the love of God air this place out. It smells like a brothel in here." He turned to look at East, who was fixing America with a very confused look. "Also, your bosses have been looking for you and I'm getting tired of their insinuations that I've kidnapped you and sold you into bondage. You may want to give them a phone call at some point or something." He turned back to West. "Feel free to eat the food in the fridge if you want - don't care about that - but lay off the bourbon. Shit's expensive."

Prussia rolled his eyes. "Don't get your panties in such a snarl," he said, unimpressed. "What, you would have had us sleep on the street?"

America fixed him with a flat look. "You _could_ have, you know, paged me. He knows the number," America said, nodding at West.

"I didn't think about it," West admitted, shoulders hunched up. "I also didn't think we would…"

"Fuck?" America supplied, when West trailed off. "Well, you did. I'll tell you what, though: you get me the bike, the bourbon, _and_ new panniers, and I won't jizz in your ridiculously expensive Italian coffee pot. I won't even invite France and England over to your place so we can 'occupy' all the surfaces."

This caused West to look up, finally, and something passed between him and America, causing both of them to chuckle.

"You are an asshole," America said, before favoring them all with an American-style army salute--" _Tschüß_ ," he told Prussia-- and walking out the front door of his apartment with his sledgehammer.

" _That_ is the USA?" East asked, after a significant amount of time had passed.

"That's him," West said, sighing as he levered himself out of the waterbed, going for his clothes. "He'll be fine. He's a bit… dramatic. Though… I probably should figure out his motorcycle… if I have to buy him a new one, that's an expense I didn't budget for this month…"

"I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't that," East said, shaking her head. The rose still clung in her long hair; Prussia decided not to mention it. The look suited her.

"I wonder why he keeps a sledgehammer in his clothes bureau," Prussia mused, heading to the kitchen with a blanket wrapped around his waist in search of coffee. Which he was going to spike with America's bourbon because fuck him.

"Why does Russia carry a pipe with him everywhere he goes?" West said with a shrug, coming out of the bedroom with his shirt untucked.

They all shook their heads.

# # #

HISTORICAL NOTES:

DAHLEM: an area of Berlin that was located in the American sector during the occupation, it was home to the Allied Kommandatura, or the governing body of Berlin. It is one of the more upscale neighborhoods in the city.

AMERICA'S APARTMENT: America has a totally swank pad for the 1990s. Google 'honey-oak cabinets' and you will be transported back to every American's dream kitchen in 1989. Colors like mauve, hunter green, and navy dominated design trends and waterbeds were absolutely all the rage. By the end of the 1980s, almost 20% of Americans owned waterbeds.

Waterbeds _were_ actually marketed as sex enhancers. One brand used the slogan, 'Waterbeds are good for two things. Sleep is one of them.' They were colloquially known as 'Pleasure Pits.' However, there were several negatives: the style of waterbed sold when they were popular ended up being bad for the lower back due to lack of support; they were cumbersome to maintain and difficult to move; they required heaters that used a _lot_ of energy. Waterbeds abruptly went from "all the rage" to "something to be avoided at all costs" by the mid-1990s, exactly like the honey-oak cabinets. While waterbeds have fallen into general disfavor (and have gained a sleezy reputation: having one these days is almost like having a mirror nailed to the ceiling above your bed), they paved the way for other "alternative mattresses" like memory foam and Sleep Numbers.

The 'great room' style of America's apartment (one big room with extremely high ceilings and all living functions in a single space) became exceedingly popular with Americans during the 1990s, as high ceilings and wide open spaces came to be synonymous with wealth and grandeur. However, they have become considerably less popular over the past decade because of the cost to heat/cool and maintain them.

While great rooms have become less popular due to impracticality, the 'multipurpose room' is still very popular in American housing layouts and has been since the 1950s. It's not uncommon for the general living spaces in US-style apartments/houses to have an "open layout," where the kitchen/living room/dining room are all the same space or only separated by half-walls. Open layouts are considered desirable; when Americans do house renovations, they often knock down walls. European-style living spaces tend to be more compartmentalized, with doors separating all rooms from the corridor connecting them.

" _Vergelt's Gott_ " A way of saying 'thank you' more common in southern Germany and Austria. When Prussia calls America a Bavarian choking on a cowboy hat, America is being a smartass.

" _Tschüß_ " A way of saying "goodbye" that is more common in northern Germany. Again, America is being a smartass.

Red-and-white roses (or a bouquet of red and white roses) symbolize unity, the balance between two people, and hope for the future. It's a popular flower combination for weddings.

Not too much else other than that. Sometimes, the only history I have to talk about is the history of waterbeds. Also, I have resigned myself to the fact that I will never actually be able to finish writing this story. This has already gone from 2 chapters to 5 chapters. Whee. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March-September, 1990. The power of Two Plus Four. East Germany votes. Russia extorts. West Germany asks for America's soft power and gives it to him hard. Japan puns better than I do.

December, 1989

"We defeated the Germans twice," England said with a shrug. "Now they're back."

The setting was quite pleasant. The _Kammergericht_ building in Heinrich-von-Kleist Park was romantic and newly-updated. The furniture was new, modern, and very clean. However, this wasn't the truly remarkable factor of the meeting.

America leaned back in his chair, resting his head against his fist as he gazed around at the other three occupants of the room: England, France, and Russia.

Fifty years ago, they'd met here regularly. Then Ivan had to get a bug up his ass about the whole thing, the Cold War started, and they'd never met here again because Ivan was a dick about it.

"My concerns are somewhat less romantic," France said with a shrug, getting an eye-roll out of England. "Namely, if two Germanys become _one_ Germany, that is one _massive_ Germany." This wasn't surprising - France wasn't doing too well economically at the moment, while Germany was booming.

"Mm," Ivan said, leaning back in his chair with his ubiquitous thimble of tea before him. He hadn't said much at the meeting; America was well-aware his own troubles were mounting (because America himself had been busy running him out of business), but was also aware that Ivan wasn't going to go down without a fight. The stupid bastard never had.

America hadn't said anything for a while. Eventually, the other three occupants of the table looked over at him. "You have been oddly silent," England pointed out, raising a meaningful eyebrow.

"This discussion has been oddly stupid," America said, shaking his head. This produced an irritated look from England, and amused expressions from both France and Ivan. "It's like you assholes don't watch the news or something."

"And what does that mean?" France asked.

"Are you going to go to war with Germany?" America asked, looking around.

"Obviously not," England said, crossing his arms. "Talk about a stupid discussion--"

"Then I'd like to know exactly how you plan on stopping reunification," America cut in, sitting forward in his chair. "Obviously, _he_ isn't going to do it--" pointing to Ivan, "--'cause if he was, he'd have done it already. He's not exactly known for wasting fucking time."

That got a snort out of Ivan, but no actual words.

America continued. "I'm not going to do anything, because… why the hell would I be afraid of a reunited Germany?"

"Ah, the luxury of geographical distance," France mused, a romantic look on his face.

"Some of us have a terrible grasp of history," England said, sounding a little stilted, an angry look flashing across his face.

"Some of us have a terrible grasp of the future," America countered, rolling his eyes.

# # #

The next day, America was in his office when an absolutely furious German stormed in the room, a newspaper in his hand.

"I'm sorry, Alfred!" the secretary called over the shoulder of Gigantic Angry Germany. "He… he wouldn't stop long enough for me to make the call to ask if you were busy!"

The look Germany was currently sporting suggested that if America _had_ been busy at the time, he'd be made _un_ busy quite quickly. "It's fine," America said, pretty sure what this was going to be about.

When the secretary closed the door, Germany reached out a hand and put the newspaper down on the desk - it had a picture of the four ambassadors of the Allied Powers standing in front of the _Kammergericht_ on the page, with America, France, England, and Russia standing off in the background.

"What is this?" Germany asked icily, his shoulders stiffer than America had ever seen him.

America looked up from the paper. "Exactly what it looks like." No sense in lying when the evidence was clear as day in print.

"It _looks_ like you are in Berlin, with the three other Allied Powers," Germany said, voice tightly wound like a finger on a trigger. His hands were clenched into fists. "I wonder what you were _discussing_."

America rolled his eyes. "The current situation, obviously. No need for the dramatic introduction."

"I notice an acute lack of German representation in this photograph," Germany snapped, leaning forward to brace his hands against America's desk. "What, am I now your vassal state? A mere appendage to the American Empire? Shall I move my capital to New York City? Would that be easier for you, Master?"

Germany really was furious - America didn't think he'd _ever_ seen him look like this before and they'd been through more than one war. When Germany finished, America raised an eyebrow, and pointed to the chair in front of his desk. "Germany. Sit."

"I am _not_ your dog," Germany bit out, his knuckles going white against the table.

" _When_ have I ever treated you like a fucking dog, even when you deserved to be whipped like one?" America asked, voice flaring with a warning note. "The fact that you're here bitching _me_ out and not England or France seems to imply you've got some sense and realize I'm your best friend in this, so I suggest you stop acting like you've joined the goddamn Baader-Meinhof Gang. Sit the fuck down and let's talk about this."

Germany's expression was still a stone mask of barely-repressed fury, but he _did_ sit down. Very stiffly.

America folded his hands on the desk. "Yes, I met up with England, France, and Russia yesterday. Yes, we were talking about German reunification."

"That is unacceptable," Germany said, voice tight. "It's not your right to dictate my future. This is a German issue… you can't decide it without us or for us."

"I understand that," America said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "I also understand why you're pissed the fuck off right now. But, trust me, you wouldn't have wanted to be there in the first place. The way England talks, he's still in the middle of the Blitz and the moment Germany reunifies Hitler's going to rise from the grave along with a horde of zombified soldiers. …though, that would probably make a good movie…"

"That is not funny," Germany informed America, eyes still hard.

"The movie would probably be," America went on, shrugging. "One of those so-bad-it's-good things. Listen. If you want this to happen, you're going to have to cut deals with all of us. I'm aware you want to handle reunification on your own, but, well… you can't. You lost WWII, we're all still here, and you're the junior partner. You are going to have to kiss a lot of ass, basically. So far, you're not off to a great start considering you knocked my damn door down to call me an imperialist and _I'm_ the one least likely to call you a Nazi."

Germany was silent. "Don't have meetings to discuss me without me there," he said, though the edge of pure fury was abating a bit.

"I will endeavor not to offend you in the future," America said dryly. There was a pause, and America drummed his fingers against the table. "You can start with me, though. You can go ahead and reunify all you want, and I'll even throw total sovereignty into the package, you on equal footing with the rest of us… _if_ you stay in NATO."

Germany was quiet, and looked off to the side.

"I don't want your money, I don't need anything else," America said, leaning back in his chair. "Unlike the others, _I'm_ very well aware you're not a fascist and you're more use to me as an equal nation at this point than as a subordinate anyway. NATO. It benefits you, as well. Naturally, I want to keep a military footprint in Europe. _You_ should want me here when you reunify, anyway. If I'm not…" he shrugged. "It's likely that France and England will buddy up in paranoia and you don't want that. NATO balances it out. Play ball on my team, and I'll make sure you don't get ganged up on."

Germany worked his fingers open and closed a few times in thought. "How am I going to get _Russia_ to accept that?" he asks. "That makes NATO _bigger_ in Europe if East's territory becomes part of it. Russia wants _that_ as much as you'd want _me_ behind the Iron Curtain."

America hummed. "Well, Russia's totally broke, for one. France isn't doing too well at this point so he's not going to be able to help Russia, even if he wanted to. I'm sure as shit not going to prop Russia up and England would be more likely to dance around the Brandenburg Gate singing the praises of reunification wearing an oak leaf crown than help Communism. He may not be your best friend in this, but England'll stand to the side if there's a chance of Communism falling, I can guarantee you that. He won't support the USSR monetarily just to keep you separated." His lip twitched. "That would also piss me the fuck off, which is not in his interests."

Germany now fixed America with an incredulous look. "You are suggesting I buy East. Purchase _my twin sister_."

"Don't shoot the messenger," America said, crossing his legs. " _I'm_ not an extortionist, but give it a couple months and Russia might be willing to try it. That's what you have that Russia needs. You've got a good economy. His is shit. That's why all of this is happening right now, anyway. If the Soviet Union were still in good shape, the Berlin Wall would still be up and the Iron Curtain would be as closed as a confessional. But, anyway, yeah. You, in NATO. So long as you stay on my team, I don't care what you do." After this little speech, America offered a smile.

Germany was looking off to the side, now. "…if I agree, will you _help_ me or just allow it?"

America raised an eyebrow. "Meaning exactly what? You know as well as I do that a divided Germany, so long as you're both stable, doesn't _hurt_ me. There's absolutely no reason for me to block reunification - and, yes, in fact I'm more for it than against it, you know that - but there's also no reason for me to go on a crusade. I don't want to alienate the fuck out of England and France, and I don't want another potential-nuke flareup with Ivan. He's poor, but armed to the fucking teeth."

"I'm aware," Germany said, and his eyes shifted back to America's. "I'm not asking for that. I'm asking for _help_." He sat back in his chair. "I'm not an idiot: I've been watching you for 50 years. Obviously I don't want you to throw nuclear weapons around. But you didn't take over the world with nuclear weapons; you took it over with McDonalds. I'm asking for your soft power, not your hard."

America blinked, and a slow smile spread across his features. "If Big Macs will help you here, I'll make sure to send you one supersized."

Germany sighed and shook his head. "I'm sorry I was angry," he said, a bit stiffly.

This got a snort from America. "I thought you were rather restrained. If I heard that some bastards were discussing my sovereignty without me there, I'd show up with a sawed-off shotgun."

## #

"Well, _that_ was obviously a power-play," Prussia said with a shrug, over his bottle of pils, which he was nursing slowly.

Germany was slumped next to him on the couch, holding his seidel. At the moment, the beloved glass was doing what it did best: holding a lot of beer. "I don't understand why it was necessary."

Prussia chuckled. "Ksesese! Oh, come on, West. All this revolutionary shit's been happening recently, and it's got the higher-ups freaked _out_. Technically, they _can_ talk above your head, so they did. Just so you'd know that they could and you don't think you can run away with everything on a happy wave of freedom."

Germany swallowed vengefully on a mouthful of beer. "Assholes," he muttered.

"I think the revolution's been getting into your blood a bit, too," Prussia said, tipping his beer bottle back and forth. "Or at least, I've never seen you like such a bull in a china shop before." His expression was amused. "I seem to remember instilling a better sense of obedience in you, little brother."

Germany leveled Prussia with a flat look. "I don't think I need to explain why it's different dealing with it from occupiers as opposed to your own forces." He sighed and leaned back into the sofa, rubbing his forehead.

"Yes, well, what did America have to say after you finished insubortinating yourself backward at him?"

That got Prussia an eye-roll. "He said he was pro-reunification if we stayed in NATO." He rubbed his forehead. "On one hand, he's the easiest nut to crack because he doesn't have anything against reunification ideologically - I know for a fact on a personal level he's for it - and his concerns are purely practical. If it were entirely up to me… I'd be neutral, I just don't want to be involved in the West-vs-East pissing game anymore, but if that's all America wants it's a small price to pay for his support. He'll be vocal about it and hopefully soften England and France up. On the other hand--"

"Russia," Prussia supplied, indicating that he understood the problem. He took a sip of his beer and looked thoughtfully out the window for a few moments. "You should let me handle it," he suggested.

Germany looked over the rim of his seidel. "What?"

"Russia," Prussia said, tipping his head. "I've been fucking living in the man's apartment for the past, oh, thirty years. If anybody in this power play understands him, it would be me, yes? Meanwhile, you'll need to get cozy with the Western powers. Sounds like you have America in the bag if I can rub Russia the right way, but you'll need to send England a fuckton of cookies or something. Less work for all of us if we split the burden." His voice was reasonable. "There's three of us for a reason, right?"

"And East?" West asked. "I don't think she'll take kindly to being completely left out of this."

"East has enough on her plate already," Prussia said. "She's been buried in paperwork setting up legal elections. You and I, we'll deal with the Allies. She's got to wrangle her own system around so that when everybody _does_ agree to let this happen, everything's all set up for it _to_ happen."

# # #

The round table had been set up with seating carefully organized in alphabetical order, according to German language. Germany had done this in order to prevent the Western Allies from ganging up on one side of the table with Russia isolated on the other and provide a hopefully more neutral setting, but _now_ he was regretting it since the alphabetical setup had put Russia and America right next to each other.

Nothing was going well. They'd been in here for hours, tempers were getting short, and the only things that they had agreed upon were what they _didn't_ agree upon. England was in a foul mood, France wasn't much better, and America and Russia were engaging in a staring contest that clearly excluded the rest of the room.

"They can't have nuclear weapons," Russia said, staring directly into America's eyes like Germany and Prussia weren't even _there_.

"We don't _want_ nuclear weapons, we're not even _contesting_ that," Prussia said, voice pointedly a little louder than normal in order to get the attention of the superpowers.

America, at least, would occasionally look in their direction and acknowledge that they _existed_. "What he said," America said with a shrug, jabbing a thumb in Prussia's direction. "You're not going to argue about _that_ , are you?"

England made a growling noise. "He'll find something to argue about, he's been doing it all bloody day."

It was true. Germany and America had conferred prior to the meeting - the minutes were set up to be crisp and brisk, hopefully leading to a productive meeting where serious issues could be ironed out quickly. That had turned out to _not_ be the case - every single issue Russia had contested.

But he couldn't be opposed to a reunified Germany _not having nuclear weapons_ , right? Germany thought, anger at being _ignored_ thrumming through his veins like vengeful poison.

"Hmm," Russia said, the purr low and sonorous, thoughtful, gazing into America's eyes with a look that could either pass for deep love or overwhelming hatred. "But how shall we announce it?"

"Told you," England said, shaking his head and picking up his cooled cup of tea. France sighed and rubbed at his temples.

"Meaning what?" America asked, eyes shrouded by the light bouncing off his spectacles. He looked like a mafia boss.

"Do we want to let them announce it alone, like it was their idea?" Russia asked, mouth bent in a small smile. "Or do we have a joint Allied statement?"

Germany was never a communist.

But he was seeing red.

# # #

"That did not go well," Prussia said on the U-Bahn ride back home.

Germany didn't answer. He couldn't think of a single thing to say that wouldn't be spiteful, so he just shook his head. Thankfully, Prussia could read his expressions very well (even outside of sex), got the message, and did not speak to him for the rest of the ride home.

Trouble awaited him there, though. When Germany entered the apartment and took off his shoes, just wanting to open the windows, air the place out, and get a beer he was interrupted by a very-irritated East Germany who stepped into the hallway and crossed her arms, staring him down with a frosty look.

Oh God, please, please not now.

"I hear you decided that we're joining NATO," she said, voice low with displeasure, arms crossed.

"This probably isn't the best time to be discussing this," Prussia cut in as Germany slowly rubbed a hand up and down his face, trying to contain the throbbing in his skull. "We're all irritated--"

"Shut up," East Germany said, flashing her eyes over at him before focusing her attention back on Germany. Prussia shut up. "I am sick and _tired_ of people telling me they don't have time for me. It's like I started a revolution, broke down a wall, and _now_ I'm no longer important and have zero say in the aftermath because _he's_ the rich one the West likes. Nevermind that I did all the actual _work_."

"We're joining NATO," Germany said, through the thick pulses of migraine starting to make themselves known in his brain - the lights in the room were starting to haze and hurt. "We have to."

"Why, because when the United States says 'jump' your only response is 'how high'?" East Germany asked acidly. "How is it that _I_ can manage to defy a _police state_ and you can't stare down a democracy?"

Pain and fury started to thud steadily through Germany's head: he opened his eyes to see East Germany with a similar state of rage on her face and Prussia's mouth slightly open, clearly trying to figure out how he could defuse the situation but coming up with nothing. "No," Germany said, his own voice low and strained. "And it's not that _simple_. You don't understand--"

"I am not an idiot," East Germany said. "And just because _you_ were coddled by capitalists does _not_ make you a know-it-all and give you the privilege to make decisions for me like I'm some sort of incompetent moron! What if I _don't_ want to join NATO? You never even asked!"

"Then we're not going to be a reunited, sovereign nation!" Germany said, his headache roaring to life like a dragon breaking the surface of a lava lake. "The United States is at the peak of his power! We can't fight him on this - if we don't have him, we won't _get anywhere_! The Soviet Union is fading! _That's_ why you don't have a bullet in the back of your head for demonstrating!"

"And wouldn't you have preferred that?" East Germany asked acidly. "Then you could have had it all handed to you on a silver platter just like your glorious economy."

The injustice of that stung. "I did all of this _myself_ ," he said. "You have no idea how much work--"

"You did all of this because _he_ \--" East pointed to Prussia, "--volunteered to go to a prison camp so _you_ wouldn't have to." There was a pause. " _You_ were a part of one of the most criminal organizations in the history of mankind and _weren't ever even punished_ and you want to talk about _how hard you've had it_?"

Silence. A pin could have dropped. Nothing but the sound of pain thudding inside of Germany's skull, distant anger, and shock so sharp it was like she'd slapped him. His vision went blurry. The migraine was taking over. Acute ringing started in his ears.

"Veronika," Prussia's voice said calmly from somewhere; it sounded far away. "You need to go. Either to your room here or back to East Berlin for a bit."

"Just because--"

"This isn't productive," Prussia said firmly. "If you're upset about the NATO stipulation, we can talk about it later when we're all calm. You clearly had a difficult day. West and I also had a rough day - he's got a migraine. Just, please, no more right now. I don't think any of us can take it."

Silence for a moment, and then Germany could hear footsteps coming toward him, a slight breath of wind as she walked past. Shuffling indicated that house slippers were being removed and real shoes were being put on, and the door opened and closed.

Germany was standing ramrod straight in the hall, his eyes closed, balanced on the balls of his feet, feeling like he was going to float off the surface of the earth at any moment.

"West?" Prussia asked calmly, and fingers brushed carefully against his temple.

"No," Germany said, jerking away from the touch. This made the world swim and was probably unwise but he just _needed_ to be listened to for a moment, needed somebody to respect him for a second, _needed_ to be left alone--

"All right," Prussia said, and he could hear footsteps walking away, and hear the quiet _click_ of light switches being switched around the apartment; Prussia was turning the lights off.

Germany stood there. Breathing. Throbbing.

More movement from the kitchen; shifting noises, pouring noises, and something being put in the microwave (the sharp beeps made him wince), and then footsteps as the microwave droned.

"West, go to bed," Prussia said, voice abnormally low and quiet for him. "Go lie down."

After a moment, Germany managed to slowly open his eyes and focus: Prussia was standing in front of him in the dark, and Germany couldn't see his face.

"Go lie down," Prussia intoned again.

After a moment, Germany nodded and walked forward, keeping one hand on the wall to steady himself as the world wobbled and waved with pain. When he made it to the bedroom, he didn't even bother with taking off the expensive suit: he just lay atop the mattress, grateful that he didn't have to stand. Wondering if he were going to vomit.

Footsteps came in. "Let me know if it's too hot," Prussia said, and Germany felt something heavy and warm rest across his forehead and over his temples - it was a sock. A heated sock full of rice.

Germany hated himself already for this, but at the touch of the warmth he started to cry, in pain, ashamed, exhausted, and angry.

"Shh," Prussia said, and the bed dipped as he sat down. "Just try and sleep, all right? Things will look better in the morning. Here, I'm just going to take off your tie and unbutton you so you'll be more comfortable. We'll take the suit to be dry cleaned tomorrow." Germany didn't protest, so Prussia went to work loosening his tie, undoing the buttons at his throat and cuffs, removing the belt, untucking the shirt, and popping the button on his slacks so the stiff material would be loose about his waist.

Germany didn't say anything, but once Prussia was done he pawed uselessly forward with his hand, which Prussia took and held.

Eventually, he slept.

# # #

Germany, in her East Berlin apartment, was not surprised when her doorbell rang shortly after noon the day after the argument. Wiping her hands off on the apron, she went to open the door.

Somewhat surprisingly, it was just Prussia; the other Germany was nowhere to be found. He was dressed in new clothes - West Germany had bought them both new wardrobes the day after they had met up in West Berlin - and had his hands in his pockets. He raised an eyebrow at her. "Hey," he said. "Invite me in?"

Germany sighed. "Come in," she said, stepping back and letting Prussia into a room that smelled like rising yeast and baking bread.

"Got in a cooking mood, then, I see?" Prussia asked, hands still in his pockets.

"Better to beat the hell out of dough than out of an actual person," Germany responded, motioning for him to follow her to the kitchen. "I was about to make your favorite: instant coffee. Unless you've gotten too spoiled by the good stuff already."

"Ksesese," Prussia said. "If it's vaguely coffee-like, I drink it." A few moments of silence passed as Germany put the kettle on. "So…" Prussia said, dragging out the syllable, "…anything you'd want to, you know, talk about? Like, last night?"

Germany sighed. "I am currently putting my apology off for that right now, thanks."

"You gave him a migraine and made him cry, if that makes any difference to you," Prussia said, voice a little flat. "Look, we've already got enough flak being sent our way over Nazism from the outside as it is. We don't need to be doing it to each other. Or at least, not like that. If West's lack of personal punishment after the war really matters to you--"

"It doesn't actually matter to me," Germany interrupted him wearily. "I shouldn't have said those things. I was trying to hurt him, it was wrong, and that's all there is to it." Crossing the kitchen, she went to rebury her hands in comforting, squishy bread dough.

"Is that really all there is? Because, from what I know of you, you don't seem to go through random periods where you hit somebody with all their insecurities for no reason," Prussia said, leaning against the counter. "All you had to do was call him fat and ugly and you would have hit him on every one."

Germany exhaled. "I'm coming to the realization that I'm going to die, and it's making me a little testy," she said, pushing her hands deep into the dough, pressing her weight on its soft structure, starting a slow rhythm with her hands.

"Just because we're working toward reunification doesn't mean you're going to die," Prussia said after a moment. "I'm still here. The country of Prussia doesn't exist anymore. Hell, I'm not even a German state."

Germany shook her head. "And how old are you, then?"

"Well, now I'm non-existent," Prussia said drolly. At Germany's look, he sighed. "I was 422 when they dissolved me."

"On the other hand, I'm 40," Germany said, shaking her head. "There are _humans_ who are older than me." Sigh. Knead. " _You_ have a grand history with an enormous impact. Me? I'm going to be associated with shitty instant coffee, censorship, blind politicians, and a stupid wall. Oh, and the fact that half my inhabitants don't _want_ to be my inhabitants. If there is no socialism - and that's what looks like will happen - there is no reason for me to exist. I'm angry because I feel like I'm being absorbed. Which I am. They aren't listening to me because I bring nothing real to the table to listen to, at least where the future is concerned."

The kettle went off, and Prussia started moving to make it - he'd been living with Germany for a period of time, and knew where all the mugs were. "You may want to consider giving yourself a bit more credit," Prussia advised. "You _are_ giving your people - and the rest of us - a far better story to be associated with as compared to the first part of the century."

"Hm," Germany said, wiping her hands off on her apron so she could take the coffee when Prussia handed it to her. "At any rate, I still have to apologize to the other. I shouldn't have said those things."

It was important to be careful, now, she had realized. There was no telling what words would be her last.

# # #

March 1990

"How much _longer_ can he possibly stall?" Germany wanted to know, wanting to pull his hair out. "It's like Russia wants to argue about the color of the sky!"

It was true. Every. Little. Single. Detail. was being gone over with a fine-toothed comb by the Soviet delegation, even ones that were entirely unnecessary. It was as if they were hoping they could drag this out for decades.

America rubbed his temples. "Welcome to my life," he said, shaking his head. He crossed his arms for a moment before reaching forward and picking up his Coke for a sip. "Well, there's always Operation Fuck This."

"If 'Operation Fuck This' has anything to do with nukes--"

"No, that's Operation Fuck Everything," America said with an amused look. "When's the Deutsch mark supposed to be released in East Germany?"

"If all talks go according to plan, July," Germany responded, raising an eyebrow. "What does that have to do with Operation Fuck This?"

America puffed out his cheeks. "East Germany is also supposed to have real elections in the Volkskammer this month, right?"

Germany nodded.

"So, let's just put the ball in motion," America said, indicating a rolling pattern. "Let's assume that this month, East Germany votes in parties that want quick reunification. Which is possible. If _that_ happens, you're going to have great chances of them voting on your Article 23."

Article 23. The buried fragment in Germany's constitution that had been entirely forgotten until the wall fell. The fragment that had always extended an olive branch over the Iron Curtain - the fragment that said _if_ the Volkskammer voted on it, East Germany could legally become part of West Germany. Of course, this had seemed utterly impossible - more likely that the moon would vote to become part of West Germany - until, oh, 5 months ago.

"So, assume they vote to hop on your bandwagon. Then, they get Deutsch marks. If Ivan's still being bitchy…" Here, a smile appeared on America's features and he snapped his fingers. "England, France, and myself relinquish rights as victors of WWII."

Germany looked at him as if he'd just professed a wish to become part of the British Empire.

"Think about it," America said with a shrug. "A legally unified Germany, now entirely using hard Western currency, with _only_ the Soviet Union as occupier."

"Uh, I'm not sure if I like Operation Fuck This," Germany said. "It seems more like 'Operation Abandon Germany to Deal With the Soviet Union'." America rolled his eyes.

"It would screw everything up," America went on. "Just because _we_ relinquish rights doesn't mean Ivan gets them. It creates a giant quagmire. Additionally, Russia would still have money issues, and its troops occupying East Germany would be stuck with roubles - currently worthless - while the country around them is in hard West currency. Between the international political debacle it would cause and the other economic effects… Ivan wouldn't be able to hold onto a unified Germany."

"That sounds like one of your 'it's so crazy it might work' schemes," Germany said flatly. "The problem being if it _doesn't_ work, you leave, and I end up in Russia's basement being 'reeducated'."

"D'aww, I'd miss being your favorite friendly occupier, too," America said with a big cheesy smile, making Germany shake his head.

The phone rang, and Germany answered it.

"You're not gonna believe it, West," Prussia said, voice breathless with excitement.

"What is it?" Germany asked.

"It's Russia. He just called. He said he wants to talk money."

America, who had heard the conversation, offered Germany a thumbs-up and a grin as he drank his Coke.

# # #

It was strange, voting.

Germany had already marked her card, and was absently swirling it between her fingers. There was a part of her curious as to what the humans in line with her were going to vote for - of course, the whole point of actually democratic voting was not to know - but another part knew.

Of course she knew. She'd known for a while.

She brought the card up to her lips absently, and smiled at the feeling of scratchy paper against the skin. She opened her eyes to see the humans waiting in line, the booths, the boxes, the actual feeling of choice. It was the difference between Technicolor and gray. It was the difference between overwhelming plenty and half-empty shelves. It was the difference between marching in the street and cowering in a cell.

She passed by the box, and dropped in the card.

For the first time, for the last time.

# # #

"I believe, at this point, that NATO membership is entirely up to the Germans," Ivan said with an absent shrug behind his fucking perpetual thimble of tea, as if he were discussing something that didn't matter, like ballet.

It took America a second to register the sentence, as he had been gearing up for another long and irritating conversation about stupid shit.

"… _what_?" America asked, and Ivan grinned.

"I've never seen you look so stupid," Ivan said, sounding very pleased. "The look suits you."

America shook his head. "Repeat that."

"I've never seen you look so stupid. The look suits you."

Now America rolled his eyes. "The bit about NATO, Commie."

"NATO membership is entirely up to the Germans."

This got a very slow, careful nod out of America. "So if the Germanys decide they both want to be part of NATO, you are not going to go batshit insane."

Now Ivan raised a very unimpressed eyebrow. "I believe my English is quite fluent, thank you."

"It is," America said, rising from the table. "Your English is fucking excellent!"

"Thank you," Ivan said, a bemused expression on his face. "Just, no foreign NATO troops on East German soil. Not until mine leave."

"Fine with me," America said with a shrug.

"Happy doing business with you," Ivan said, offering America an unnervingly cheery smile.

"Uh, yeah," America said, quickly backpedaling to the door so he could go make a bazillion phone calls about this. "Really great."

"Creepy fuck," America muttered once he was out of the room.

# # #

September, 1990

Germany was sitting in his bed, reading a book and drinking a cup of tea. He was all packed to leave for Moscow, tomorrow, where the long-awaited treaty on his sovereignty would be signed. It had been a very fast, headache-inducing set of months, but it was coming to an end. He looked at the clock on the bedstand - almost 12:30am, he should think about sleep soon - when the door opened without a knock.

A little startled, he looked up to see East Germany standing there, in a blue dress (almost all of her dresses were blue) and a giant smile on her face. "October third," she said with a grin.

"October third?" Germany asked, closing his book and sitting up, tipping his head.

"The Volkskammer approved reunification for October third," East Germany said, her face alight with a smile so radiant that Germany couldn't help but reach forward and touch the corner of it.

Germany's face broke into its own smile, so big he thought his mouth would break. "Oh," was all he could think of to say, but he reached forward to tug East Germany into his arms - East Germany chuckled and reached a hand up to drape on his shoulder.

He held her there for a period, enjoying her warmth and weight against him.

"We'll have to figure out names," Germany said, nuzzling his face happily into the crook of her shoulder.

"Names?" East Germany asked, bemused. "I've already got a few of those, I believe. One gifted by you, if I remember correctly." Her hand rested on the back of his head, fond and intimate.

"Well, it's going to get confusing if we both are just 'Germany,'" Germany pointed out. "Now most people call us 'West Germany' and 'East Germany' but if it's just Germany, meetings will get very confusing."

East Germany chuckled in her throat. "I'm sure it'll work itself out," she said with a shrug, pulling back slightly to look at the clock. "Want to sleep together tonight?"

"Uh, I probably shouldn't," Germany said, looking at the clock as well. "I have to be on my way to Moscow tomorrow and expending so much energy might--"

East Germany laughed. "I mean just literally sleep. Not sex."

"Oh," Germany said, feeling a bit of a blush for being so presumptuous cross his face. "Um, well, sure."

With a hum, East Germany sat up and completely stripped, tossing her clothes against his wall.

"Er, do you want a shirt or…" Germany asked, getting awkward again.

East Germany rolled her eyes. "It's nothing you haven't seen before. Seriously? Come on, off with yours."

She had a point. "…all right," Germany said, standing and taking his clothes off in a much more restrained manner before getting on the bed and switching out the light.

When he got under the covers and she pressed against him, he was slightly uncomfortable at first - he didn't want sex right now - but relaxed when she made no overtures of the sort. In fact, she simply curled up against his back, arms around him, body pressed against him, legs twisted up with his.

It felt good, actually, the unguarded proximity of naked touch, from head to toe, nothing between them but flesh.

He slept well that night.

# # #

The trip to Moscow went well. Prussia had gotten up early enough to make breakfast and all three of them had enjoyed it together in high spirits. The train was high-class and comfortable.

He couldn't believe it. He was _getting his sovereignty back_. What seemed like a pipe dream a year ago was reality today.

The scenery flew by, and Germany felt like he was flying with it.

# # #

Of course, everything good in Germany's life had a way of exploding in his face at the last minute.

The entire day had been spent wining and dining with dignitaries, eating caviar, and generally being impatient. Russia had provided a lovely spread, though: the food was top notch, and even the extraordinary gaudy surroundings (well, Germany thought they were gaudy: Prussia adored them) seemed to fit the mood of the day.

The actual treaty wasn't to be signed until the next morning, and even though the festivities were genial and overall enjoyable, Germany just wanted to sign the damn piece of paper.

He was finally able to make excuses to leave the festivities at around 12:30 in the morning, and his entire pleasant day was about to be ruined by a pale-faced Prussia throwing open the door to Germany's bedroom in the suite so hard that it probably left an imprint in the wall.

"We just got fucked," Prussia proclaimed, pale face even paler than normal.

"By what?" Germany asked, blood pressure immediately spiking.

"England," Prussia replied, lips tightening in anger.

" _England_?" Germany asked. Yes, he was well-aware that England was not pleased overall that this was happening (and that his boss was livid), but what _possibly_ \--

"England has a total bug up his ass about performing military maneuvers in East German territory," Prussia explained, "and that's the one thing the Soviets are dead-set against, are foreign NATO troops in East Germany. The Soviets have canceled the treaty-signing."

No. _No_.

For a moment, it felt like the world was crumbling under Germany's feet, before he shook his head, his mouth stretching out in a flat line of determination. "Where is America?"

"How the fuck should I know?" Prussia asked, throwing his hands up in the air. "Not at this hotel!"

Feet moving fast, Germany ran down a couple of floors where aides were buzzing like bees about a hive despite the late hour. Germany managed to pin one of them down and get them to make a telephone call to America's delegation at one of the other hotels in Moscow.

"They say he's asleep and they won't wake him, Sir," the aide said after a moment, holding her hand over the phone.

"Fuck that!" Germany said, getting a _lot_ of attention from the aides since, unlike Prussia, he didn't tend to swear very much. "What hotel is he staying at?"

The aide was looking up at him with something like restrained awe. "Four Seasons Red Square, Sir."

" _You_ tell the aide that I am taking a cab over there _right now_ and I don't care if I have to break down the door _myself_ to talk with him!" Germany ordered, before turning on his heel to do just that.

# # #

"Germany? What the fuck?"

America, dressed in a worn brown robe and covering a yawn with his hand, really did look much younger when he didn't have his glasses on. But that was not Germany's main focus at the moment.

"You have to help me," Germany said. " _You said you would_."

"Huh?" America asked, a look of such obvious confusion flashing across his drowsy features that Germany realized he actually did have no idea what was going on.

"They've canceled the treaty-signing," Germany said tightly, his hands clenching into fists.

America looked more alert immediately. " _What_?"

"They've canceled the treaty signing because England wants to drive tanks around Magdeburg and Russia won't let him," Germany explained tersely. "I swear, if this absurdity--"

Another wave of emotion hit him and suddenly his throat seized up. He had to stop talking otherwise there was danger of tears. This couldn't be happening. This _couldn't_ be happening.

"Okay, okay," America said, tugging Germany into the room and shutting the door. "So you want me to help. You want me to call England, I'm guessing? It's not like Russia will listen to me for fuck-all."

Germany nodded.

"All right, I'll give him a call and see if I can get him to calm down. His boss probably had a freakout on him," America said. "He really didn't seem to be in a bad mood about it earlier today. Do you want to sit?"

He pointed to an overstuffed chair in the corner, but Germany shook his head. Instead, he followed America over to the phone and proceeded to stand directly behind him while America dialed in the number.

"This is sorta like talking to somebody with a very large, very threatening toddler standing behind you," America muttered into the receiver. "Yeah, hi, this is Alfred Jones. I know that Arthur Kirkland is probably in bed right now, but I suggest you wake him up unless you want to deal with a joint American-German invasion. He'd rather talk to me on the phone, trust me."

It took a few moments, but America did manage to get England on the phone. Germany wasn't really listening to what America was saying, but did catch a few sentences ('would you calm the fuck down,' and 'this sounds like something _I'd_ get my panties twisted over, not _you_ ' appeared a couple of times), and after about 20 minutes, Germany was beginning to feel a sick sense of despair in his gut.

So close. He had been _so close_. And now because of some stupid--

America hung the phone up and turned around, sliding his hands back into the pockets of his robe. "Okay," he said, raising an eyebrow.

"…okay?" Germany said hesitantly.

America laughed. "You weren't listening to a damn word I was saying, were you? Anyway, I fixed it. England passed me off to his aides and they're contacting the Soviets now. He backed off. I suspect we'll be able to sign it tomorrow, right on schedule. I should get a confirmation call back within the hour."

America was looking at him with a small smile on his face, and Germany simply shook for a moment. He seriously could have kissed him.

Germany was kissing him.

"Mm!" America said, obviously surprised at the sudden movement, his hands lifting automatically in the air. Germany grabbed his wrists and threw his weight forward, slamming America back against the desk, pinning him on his back against the surface with a fast move, half crawling-atop him.

"Mmm!" America said again as Germany proceeded to colonize the inside of his mouth. America kicked a foot out, as if he were going to push him off, but the foot lowered. "Mm…" he said after another moment, clearly deciding that the state of affairs was more pleasing than not.

"Shit, fuck," America said elegantly when Germany let him up for air, looking slightly dazed and aimless, the effect magnified by the lack of glasses. "Germany, holy-- shit!"

Still on his determined quest, Germany tore open America's loose robe, revealing a pair of sleep shorts beneath it and nothing else. Germany's mouth attached to the crook between America's neck and shoulder and he greedily sucked there.

" _Goddamn_ ," America continued, throwing his head back. "Germany, ach, _fuck_ \--"

Germany's hand shot out, shaking, and he grabbed America by the chin. "You never shut up," he told the other harshly, but the rough emotion in his voice wasn't directed at the nation before him at the moment, "you never _shut up_."

And Germany was actually grateful for that.

America was grinning in his grip, strong face muscles like cable pushing against his fingers. "Gonna make me?" he asked, voice all pleasure and teasing.

Germany's hands hooked underneath America's armpits and he slammed him against the wall above the desk hard enough to make the wall-mounted sconces shake; he was kneeling on the blotter with America's legs spread around his form, America pinned and grinning against him, and Germany's lips pressed firmly against that smile; America's lips obediently dovetailed.

"Oh my God why do I never have lube when I need it, why," America panted when Germany broke the kiss, fully pressed up against America - America tipped his head back in agony and Germany started marking the exposed skin forcefully with his mouth, devouring and _high_.

"Don't need it," Germany said crisply, starting to rotate his suit-clad hips into America's far-more-exposed groin, thumping him rhythmically against the wall.

"But I want you to pound the fuck out of me in the Four Seasons!" America whined, throwing his head back and wrapping his muscular legs around Germany's waist, giving him full freedom of leverage. "You're _never_ like this and I gotta take advantage of it goddamn it!"

Well, Germany had never been free.

"I," Germany panted roughly, starting to slam America against the wall with more force, only making America groan, "will pound the fuck out of you on your stupid waterbed using that stupid _Gun Oil_ lube so this time _I'm_ too slick to stay inside of _you_ and _you_ end up blueballed and moaning like you did to _me_ \--"

"Okay, dude, that was an-- _argh, god, put your back into it_ \--accident, dude, but it was also hot to have you moaning like that no lie--"

Germany _did_ put his back into it and soon America was slamming into the wall so hard that the pictures nailed there were shaking. America threw his head back against the stucco and _moaned_ , reaching out to brace himself against the shivering wall-sconce. It was a strange combination of power, strength, and pleasure running up and down through Germany's spine but if America's enthusiastic grinding and moans were any indication the other was _loving it_ so no reason to stop--

The phone rang.

Germany stopped, and America blinked as if disoriented, his hand still gripping the wall sconce, his eyes shooting between Germany and the ringing contraption that still managed to be on the desk.

"Answer it," Germany commanded, feeling his face warm and flush, just like America's.

" _Now_?" America asked breathlessly, red and undone, his sleep shorts obviously tented.

Germany picked up the phone and handed it to America, a flat look on his face. America took it.

"Yeah, hi," America said, looking Germany in the face. "Hi, England, thanks for, uh, calling me b--b-- _ack_!"

Germany pressed forward and started grinding his hips into America's again, a smug look appearing on his features as America's eyes rolled back into his head.

"Oh God, yes, _oh God_ I'm glad that we can _signthetreatytomorrow_ yes I'll tell Germany he'll be fucking-- _oh fuckballs yeah, just, fucking like you goddamn mean it_ \-- I mean, fuck, England, god, have you ever had Germany fuck you against a wall before because _fucking Christ_ \--"

Well, Germany actually hadn't meant for America to narrate exactly what was going on, but he supposed he couldn't be surprised. He was getting close now, and the arc of pleasure becoming more inevitable-- he didn't want to stop-- America's hand inadvertently tightened on the wall sconce he was holding for support and ripped it out, plunging the room in darkness--

"Oh _fuck me_ that's going to be expensive oh _fuck me_ yeah, that's right, just like that, oh my _god_ Germany _yes_ god Christ on a pogo stick yeah god England you really gotta fuckin' try this--"

All right, even in his current state Germany had had enough of that. With one hand he reached forward and smacked the phone receiver out from America's hand - it fell down into the garbage can with a clatter. "If-- he-- blocks the treaty-- because you-- were having--" his hips pistoned harder, causing both of them to groan, "--phone sex-- with him--"

"Oh, yeah, that'll… _argh_ … really go over at the discussion table… 'Germany and America fucked last night at the Four Seasons, I'm not signing the treaty'… I hope he says it just… to see the look on Ivan's face… oh god I'm _done_ \--!"

America used his own considerable strength to press his groin into Germany's, stopping Germany from his slamming motion and turning it more into a slow grind, and Germany could feel America's cock jerk against him, warm dampness coating the inside of the slick sleep shorts.

America's panting filled the room for a few oddly-silent seconds, while Germany continued the slow grind, close, but not quite there yet.

"Now," America said, breathing slower, voice lower. "Imagine fucking me on my waterbed in a room full of boxes when I move out--"

Germany's vision went white as he came, nearly crushing America against the wall.

The treaty signing was businesslike the next morning.

England spent the entire time looking incredulous.

America was smiling.

# # #

August, 1991 

"Okonomiyaki, of course," America said to the grinning Japanese students, little girls hardly up to his hips in height, wearing adorable bright-yellow hats and matching navy uniforms.

This response to their question provoked the desired response; they squealed happily and chattered to each other in pleased Japanese: _He knows what it is! No, no, Aiko, you have to write it down in English. O-k-o-n_ …

As one of the girls instructed Aiko in the English spelling of okonomiyaki, he noticed Japan's amused expression behind him. America chuckled as Aiko finished spelling it out, before the three girls skipped away with a very-adorable chorus of 'Sank-yu's.

 _You should try letting them know you speak Japanese next time_ , Japan suggested, his hands neatly folded in front of him. _You will get a very good reaction._

America hummed and looked up, Japan's relaxed and pleased expression looking somewhat strange in front of the living rubble that called itself the A-bomb Dome. The destroyed building was a bizarre juxtaposition with the bustling city surrounding it: the wide green slope of the Hiroshima Peace Park, the surrounding city alive with streetcars and people.

 _It's good for them to practice their English_ , America said with a shrug, walking over to look up at the structure. _I'm sorry I couldn't come to the ceremonies last month, again_. _I spend so much time in Europe these days I feel like a European._

Japan hummed, following his gaze. _It's nice to be here when it's calm and not a ceremony_ , he demurred, polite as always. _And I assume Germany is no longer Germany, but Russia is very much Russia?_

America's attention broke from the destroyed building to meet Japan's expression - uh oh. He was looking _very_ amused, which implied that he'd just told a joke that went straight over America's head. _Germany is no longer Germany?_

Japan raised an eyebrow, calmly waiting for America to figure out what the fuck he was saying.

 _Are you making another pun?_ America asked after a long, suffering moment. _Because I'm not going to understand this one on my own_  

Japan sighed, obviously a bit put out that America was not getting his wit. (Again.) _The first kanji symbol for Germany_ , he said.

Oh. Great. America screwed his face up in a constipated expression. First kanji symbol for Germany. Pronounced _do_. Okay. There's got to be--

 _Germany is no longer alone, and Russia is crying_ , America said after a moment, finally getting the joke. Japan favored him with a rare smile offering teeth. _Don't you think it's a bit mean to call Germany 'the country of alone'? …also, he has more neighbors than either of us…_

Japan hummed and shrugged. _It's just for the sound._ But he did seem pleased that America finally got his humor.

Both nations stared up at the ruined dome.

 _It's hard to believe that it's only been 45 years,_ America commented. _It seems like a lifetime ago_.

 _It feels like yesterday_ , Japan replied, turning his head down, voice still quiet.

America's lip ticked, and he said nothing. An apology would mean nothing here and it wouldn't be entirely sincere, either.

The silence wasn't uncomfortable, though - if nothing else, Japan would definitely understand why America wasn't talking; the man was nearly a mindreader half the time - and they both looked up at the iron ruin of the dome before them, the last standing reminder of what had occurred here.

 _I don't blame you, though,_ Japan went on, still looking at the structure.

America turned his head back to Japan and raised an eyebrow - Japan wasn't looking back at the moment.

 _The whole world redefined morality in that war,_ Japan continued. _That conflict, that shift-- it didn't just move power around, it didn't just move armies. It moved our souls; it pointed our moral compasses toward a different pole. It made possible the Holocaust. It made possible the undiscriminating bombing of cities, like London, Tokyo, Hamburg. It made Nanking possible._

America was silent. Japan _never_ talked about this. Ever. Japan still wasn't looking at him.

 _In a world where so much that was once unimaginably barbarous became not only possible, but_ reality _, really, that bomb, those bombs, that shift-- it doesn't defy logic. The only place all of that madness-turned-logic takes you is…_ He finally looked at America, and nodded toward the A-bomb Dome. _Here. Utter and horrific destruction_.

America wasn't sure what to say. _It was a horrific event_ , he said slowly.

Japan hummed, and pointed across the street, to where the two halves of the Peace Museum, connected by a long skywalk sat. _That is the Peace Museum. You have been_.

America nodded, though it wasn't like Japan needed confirmation; he'd gone inside of it before with him.

 _As you know, there are two halves to it. East and West. East_ \-- here, Japan pointed to it, -- _about what was happening in Japan and Asia during the time of the bomb. The reasons_ why _it was dropped here. West--_ Japan moved his finger, -- _the damage of the bomb. The suffering._

 _You do not apologize for the dropping of the bomb_ , Japan said with a shrug. _You cannot. It would be a lie. But you feel guilt. The reasons are explained perfectly in the museum. The East Wing is why you do not apologize. The West Wing is why you feel guilt_  

Again, America said nothing.

Japan folded his hands. _For me, the situation is reversed_ , he said simply. _But East and West are both necessary for our understanding of the event. No matter how you feel about both directions. If we forget one, we forsake the meaning of the other._

There was a long silence.

 _What will you do now, now that Germany is no longer alone and Russia's empire has succumbed to tears?_ Japan asked.

America's lip ticked. _I get the feeling you are speaking with metaphor_ alone.

Japan bowed neatly with a grin. _Belligerence of the state will not be recognized_ , he said, and the amusement was back in his eyes again. _I must most humbly apologize._

America rolled his eyes. _I don't get your puns, but I do understand when you're being a dick_ , he said. _Let's go find something to eat. I'm so hungry I could eat…_ \--this was going to be good-- … _myself_.

Japan paused for a moment, looking up in surprise before he rewarded America with bright laughter. _The okonomiyaki's my treat for that one,_ Japan said, leading America away from the dome and into the heart of the thriving city. 

# # #

JAPANESE HUMOR: Japanese humor (the non-slapstick variety) is hugely based on puns. This is because words can have several different meanings based on their kanji combinations. Here, Japan (and America) are punning on country names.

Typically, foreign countries in Japan are written in katakana, a phonetic alphabet designed for foreign words. So "America" is "アメリカ"or "a-me-ri-ka" and Germany is "ドイツ" or "Do-i-tsu," etc. However, sometimes (usually in newspapers or other formal media) Chinese characters are used. In this fashion, America is 亜米利加　and Germany is 独逸. For non-kanji-using countries, these kanji are strictly chosen for their sound alone. So the four kanji characters for 'America' are literally pronounced 'a-me-ri-ka" and the two kanji for Germany are 'do-itsu.' (The kanji for kanji-using countries do have actual double meanings. For instance, the kanji for Japan is 日本 or "nihon," which literally mean "sun" and "land." This is why Japan is often known as "the land of the rising sun" and their flag has a sun on it.)  
  
However, even though the kanji for non-kanij-using countries are not chosen for their meanings, they still _have_ meanings and people still pun on them. Usually, even though countries have multiple kanji for their name, there is one kanji that represents them. The "representative" kanji for Germany is 独 and the representative kanji for America is 米. These kanji are used to represent the countries in other words. For instance, 米軍, or "beigun" means "American armed forces."

独, representing "Germany," also happens to mean "alone." So Germany is the "land of alone." When Japan says that "Germany is no longer Germany," he's also saying "the land of alone is no longer alone," referring to the reunification of Germany. Russia is 露西亜, the first and representative character 露 meaning "dew/tears." So Russia is the 'land of tears.' Thus, "Russia is crying" or upset about the loss of the Cold War. When America says that Japan isn't speaking in metaphor ALONE, he's indicating he understands Japan is talking about the situation in Germany too when he's talking about East and West. 

The character representing America, 米, means 'rice.' So America is the 'country of rice.' While 米 is pronounced "bei" on its own (but "mei" in the context of A-ME-ri-ka), the colloquial word for rice is "gohan." "Gohan" also means "meal" in Japanese. So America is so hungry he could eat himself, the "country of meals."

This is played on in several contexts. Another example is the Japanese beer, 独歩. That word literally translates to "unique/peerless," referring to the quality of the beer. However, if you take the characters separately, they mean "alone" and "walk." Again, Germany is represented by the same character meaning "alone." So if you read the name of the beer in this way, it also means "the German walk/way." That particular beer is a German-style brew. (Amusingly, this beer is suggested to be drank 'in the traditional way' paired with eel. Because traditionally the Germans eat eel with their beer, as everybody knows.)

When Japan says he "can't be belligerent," he is referring to Article 9 of his constitution, which states that "the right to belligerency of the state will not be recognized," meaning that Japan can't be militarily aggressive. Japan's constitution was written by Americans after WWII. When he says "he most humbly apologizes," he is being a smartass. One way to be rude in Japanese is to be overly polite. The word "kisama," usually translated as "bastard" into English, actually means "honorable you." It's so polite it's rude. 

Welcome to Japanese! Resign yourself immediately to the fact that you will never understand anybody's jokes.

The Hiroshima Peace Museum does have an East Wing and a West Wing, with a really fascinating history. Originally it was just the West Wing, which is… a very evocative museum. It contains artifacts like carbonized children's lunches, the steps from a bank where a man was sitting and got vaporized when the atomic bomb dropped, and mannequins with their skin melting off. This got a lot of criticism from Asian countries around the Pacific Rim, as it was said that the museum made it seem like the bomb was dropped for no reason at all and there was no context of Japanese atrocity during the war. Eventually, the East Wing was added, which puts the West Wing in context.

Japan isn't the only country with museum issues. In 1995, the Air and Space Museum in the Smithsonian was going to do an exhibit based on the Enola Gay, or the plane that dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima to commemorate 50 years passing since the atomic bomb was dropped. This exhibit was to have a section called 'Ground Zero,' which would feature artifacts from the Hiroshima Peace Museum, like the carbonized lunches. The script for the exhibit was leaked to the press, which started absolute outrage among military representatives and several politicians, who didn't want to mark the 50th year of victory with an exhibit apparently designed to 'make veterans feel bad.' The furor was intense: eventually, several politicians threatened to defund the Smithsonian (the Smithsonian is funded by the American national government), and the Smithsonian had to change the script.

The end exhibit was literally the Enola Gay in a room with a plaque describing what it was.

"Okonomiyaki" is a pancake made of cabbage and batter with a variety of other ingredients (pork, squid, octopus, cheese) that is highly associated with Hiroshima (especially when it is made with noodles). The name means "what you like/want" (okonomi) "grilled" (yaki). If you are ever in the Hiroshima Peace Park during a nice day when school is in session, it is absolutely flooded with Japanese schoolchildren that are seeking out foreigners to ask them questions in English for school projects. When they ask you what your favorite Japanese food is, you should absolutely tell them it's okonomiyaki. The schoolchildren are usually from the Hiroshima area, and this will please them.

THE TWO PLUS FOUR TREATY: This chapter is mostly about the "Two Plus Four" (four Allied powers and two Germans) treaty, which became an issue after the Berlin Wall fell down. It is formally called the "Treaty on the Final Settlement With Respect to Germany." It is the treaty where the four Allied powers (the US, UK, France, and Soviet Union) formally renounced all rights they had in Germany as victors of WWII, allowing Germany to become a sovereign nation and reunify East and West. 

So this was, uh, a very complex process. The fall of the Berlin Wall was an absolute shock to everybody - literally, at the beginning of 1989 Germany seemed as likely to reunify as North Korea and South Korea seem likely to reunify today - so dealing with the aftermath was a huge headache.

After the Berlin Wall fell, German Chancellor Helmut Kohl started behaving "like a bull in a china shop" (Gorbachev's words) in his haste to try and get reunification started. His attempt to increase flight traffic between East and West Germany was rebuked in a severe (but roundabout) way by the four ambassadors from the Allied powers meeting up in Berlin without any German representatives there to discuss what to do about the Germanys. A picture of the four ambassadors appeared in Western news, infuriating Germans as this was seen as their problems being talked about over their heads (which it was).

The US was the most pro-reunification country of the Allied powers, but while the general concept was not displeasing to them, they were more neutral on the actual politics of it at first. As America says, two separate Germanys did not hurt the US, so long as both were stable. However, their tune quickly changed when Oskar Lafontaine's (another German politician) rise in popularity. Lafontaine was highly critical of NATO and a member of the SPD, a left-leaning German party. The US was worried that if he got the Chancellorship, he'd expel NATO from West Germany, which was not what the US wanted.

In terms of popular opinion, most West Germans did not want to be part of NATO - they wanted to be neutral. However, Kohl feared that if NATO left (meaning the US would leave Europe), a unified Germany would face an anti-German French-Anglo coalition. The US quickly saw that supporting German reunification and Kohl was in their best interest, and threw their support behind it.

However, in general the UK was very much against reunification, particularly Margaret Thatcher. ("We beat the Germans twice! And now they're back again!" is a quote from her, and she also went around with a map of Europe in her purse so she could point out German expansion over the course of history.) Thatcher remained opposed to unification, even after it happened. However, she hated Communism more than the idea of reunification, and would not inject money into the Soviet Union (which would have been the only real way to prevent it from happening). Also, helping out the Soviet Union would have infuriated the United States.

France was also against it, but its leaders were not as hardline as the UK was. Whereas the only thing the Americans wanted from a unified Germany was that it stay in NATO, the French used the opportunity to speed up Germany's integration into Europe, setting the stage for the Euro to be introduced.

The Soviet Union was in bad shape economically and politically at this point. At first, they did everything they could to stall the situation (and was initially set on having a reunified Germany not entirely sovereign; they did debate on whether Germany's status as a non-nuclear nation would be seen as a decision made by the Germans alone - which it was, the German delegation did not contest not being nuclear - or whether it was a decision made by the Allies. This pissed off the Germans, again).

Because the Soviet Union was stalling so much, the US did come up with the backup plan I call 'Operation Fuck This' (it was not called that in reality, but should have been). Understandably, this plan made West Germany a bit anxious, as even though it was _likely_ the Soviet Union as sole occupier would not be able to hold on to Germany as a unified nation, it was _possible_ and they didn't want that.

Article 23 of the constitution did allow for East Germany to vote itself into West Germany. Again, this was seen as functionally impossible as the Volkskammer (People's Parliament) was a rubber-stamp parliament and constitutionally run by the Communist party (there were elections in the GDR, but they were sham elections). However, after the Berlin Wall fell, Communist leadership went completely out the window, and the first real free elections held in East German territory since before the Nazi regime were held in March of 1990. The Communist party was booted out of office and replaced with parties committed to fast German unity. Essentially, the East German state voted itself out of existence. These were also the last elections in the GDR, because after this, Germany unified.

Even though East Germany wanted to become part of West Germany, there was considerable debate and angst over how it was to be done - whether a new constitution would be drawn up for unification or if East Germany would simply become West Germany. Eventually, the second option was chosen. So, essentially, "unified" Germany is now all West Germany, but since there's no more East Germany everybody just calls it Germany. Or the Federal Republic of Germany, as it is formally known.

A lot of bad feelings cropped up between East Germans and West Germans during this time, even though there was elation. East Germans felt like they weren't being listened to by their wealthier West counterparts, and West Germans felt that the East Germans were being whiny and demanding. There was some support from East Germans for the unified Germany to not be entirely-capitalist, but West Germans weren't exactly interested in that. Cultural and political divides still exist between East and West, though they lessen with time.

Eventually, the Soviet Union was ready to talk money with West Germany. (Gorbechev said that they "needed oxygen,") which lead to lengthy discussions about loans and grants. The straight up cost of unification involved roughly 55 million Deustch marks being paid to the Soviet Union in the form of grants and loans. (Other costs have been involved as well, like a Solidarity Tax that still exists today where West German states transfer money to East German states.) Once this was settled, the Soviet Union abruptly announced to shocked West German and American representatives that German could make its own decision about NATO.

This essentially sewed everything up, and delegates from the four Allied powers and the two Germanys went to Moscow to sign the treaty

However, it was canceled at the last minute because the English delegation suddenly got up in arms about practicing NATO troop movements in East German territory, which was the one stipulation that the Soviet Union would not budge on. (Many believe this was Thatcher trying to intervene at the last minute.) The Soviet Union canceled the treaty signing. This sent panicked German delegates to the hotel room of US Secretary of State James Baker at 1 in the morning. (Baker's aide did say that Baker had taken sleeping pills and that they would not wake him up.) Baker called the English delegation and got them to back off.

I assume they did not have sex against the wall, though. I added that for interest.

The treaty was signed the next afternoon.


	7. Chapter 7

EDIT: Last chapter posted. Please continue on. This is here to keep the comments, and nothing further. :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fall, 1990. Reunification, a house, a dog. East Germany is saved; the bell tolls.

September 27, 1990

In an obvious fit of insanity, West's boss had presented him with a new set of keys. Keys to a house. An honest-to-God house.

West had brought the keys back to the apartment with all the reverence due the Tabernacle and handed them to Prussia like he was gifting the keys to Heaven itself.

"…he gave you a  _house_?" Prussia had asked, incredulous. Surely, this house wouldn't be nearly as grand as the estates Prussia's previous bosses had bestowed upon him back in the day, but the idea of living in an actual  _detached building_  seemed like sheer opulent lunacy after apartment-dwelling for so long.

West had nodded, a look of devoted seriousness on his face. "It's in Reinickendorf."

So, definitely not as grand as one of Prussia's old estates. "I see," Prussia said, looking down at the key.

"It has eleven rooms  _and a yard_ ," West had said, as if he were describing a palace, a look of disbelieving bliss written across his face. "And it's  _ours_."

Prussia smiled at West's thinly-veiled joy. "Eleven whole rooms," he said, trying not to laugh.

West nodded seriously. "I don't have the time to get out there today, so I'll need you to head out and let me know how much furniture we'll need, and what kind of cabinets for the kitchen--"

"Can't we just bring the cabinets from this apartment?" Prussia asked, raising an eyebrow. They were currently  _in_  the kitchen, and the spotless white cabinets didn't seem to be in bad condition.

"No," West said solemnly. "We are going to get…"--dramatic pause--"… _new cabinets._ "

"You might want to stop before you give yourself the vapors," Prussia laughed, unable to hold it back anymore. "All right, all right, I'll go take a look at it."

That was how Prussia found himself standing in front of the house in Reinickendorf, standing outside of the waist-high gray gate and up at the building.

Lord help him, it was ugly. The place had clearly been built in the 1970s and showed its age: a strangely curved front façade gave way to the boxy back of the structure; it was all covered in white concrete stucco, slightly stained. The stairs up to the entrance were in chipped terracotta concrete that definitely needed some attention. The space between the gray gate and the building had been done in graphite pavers and gravel, clearly meant to hold a couple of automobiles.

However, it was indeed a  _house_ , and, hey, whatever. The glory days of castles and estates were long gone and castles often got drafty anyway. Prussia moved the gate aside and stepped across the gray pavers, heading to a black gate that lead to a very-promising-looking patch of green grass.

…this was much better. While the previous owners of the house clearly were not gardeners (the entire place was overgrown and ill-kept), there was plenty of green space and a healthy-sized terrace jutted from the back of the house.

This might end up being very nice.

Prussia was about to turn and head back around to the front when something whimpered at his feet and hit his ankle.

"Gack!" Prussia said, leaping off to the side and rearing back his foot to kick whatever-it-was like a soccer ball--

His foot stalled when he realized he was looking at a small animal helplessly wandering around the backyard, blind due to having its head stuck in a discarded food can. For a few sickening moments Prussia thought he was looking at an oversized rat, before more urgent whimpering noises escaped the can.

It was a puppy. There was a puppy with a can on its head wandering around his backyard.

Prussia put his foot down and stared incredulously at the creature that was whining, whimpering, and running in pathetic circles at his feet with its tail between its legs.

Oh, good God.

"Hey, come here," Prussia said, carefully reaching down the next time the puppy ran by him and grabbing the end of the can. Now that the can had purchase, the dog was able to pull back once, twice, and pop out of it, doing a backward somersault and yipping with surprise.

Prussia chuckled, standing up. "There you go," he said, the can still in his hand.

Once the puppy got over its tumble, it peered up at Prussia with bright brown eyes, cocked its head curiously, and started to wag its tail.

Uh-oh.

"No," Prussia said, slowly backing away from the creature and waving his hands as if to ward it off - the puppy merely followed after. "No, absolutely  _not_." Quickly, he bounded up the stairs to the back terrace and went to the door, fumbling for the key to unlock it.

By the time he figured out how to get the back door to open, the puppy had cheerfully followed after him and was rolling playfully around his feet - Prussia quickly slid into the newly-opened door and shut it, locking the dog outside.

"Phew," Prussia muttered to himself.

Locked outside alone, the puppy started to whine piteously.

"Oh God, no," Prussia said, putting a hand to his face. The whining intensified.

After the longest five seconds of Prussia's life passed, he opened the door to see the puppy sitting on its hindquarters, looking dejected.

It was unfortunate that Prussia hadn't realized his fatal weakness for dejected-looking puppies until that moment. After the puppy realized the door was opened, it looked up and started to wag its tail again.

A moment later, the dog had stood up and trotted happily into the house, where it proceeded to roll joyfully around Prussia's feet once more.

Prussia groaned. "I am not naming you," he told the adorable creature. "I am not naming you, and I am taking you to the shelter after I figure out how many cabinets West needs to buy to satisfy his brand new home-decorating fetish."

# # #

The house did indeed have eleven rooms. There were three bedrooms - perfect - two bathrooms, a kitchen, a living room, a den, a dining room, a library, and a storage room.

He had started calling the puppy Fritz.

"Goddamn it, Fritz," Prussia muttered half-heartedly as he looked around the kitchen. It was large, and would definitely need cabinetry and basically everything else - the only thing the previous owners had left behind was an old stove that looked like it had seen better days in the 50s. The rest of it had been gutted.

The puppy was still rolling around Prussia's feet like a fuzzy whirling dervish. After Prussia had decided they'd need to purchase an entirely new kitchen he leaned down and scooped Fritz up to take a better look.

Unsurprisingly the dog was little more than skin and bones, but looked as though he'd fill out nicely if given the chance. Fritz' tongue rolled out, cheerful and pink as Prussia looked him over - big ears, big paws, brown-and-black coloring, high hipbones.

"You look like a German Shepherd," he told Fritz flatly, who wagged his tail happily at being held. "But that makes no sense." Considering what those dogs were worth, no way would a stray be roaming around suburban Berlin without a collar.

Probably some sort of mutt, then. Prussia sighed and put the dog back down, where it proceeded to flop lovingly on Prussia's feet once more.

The only article of furniture in the house other than the old stove was a kitchen table. Prussia looked over at it and noticed a piece of paper, which he picked up to read; his foot gently and absently nudged at the puppy perched atop it as he did so. Fritz's tail pounded the ground.

"… _oh really_?" Prussia said with a snigger, but was quickly distracted by the front door opening - Prussia shoved the paper in his back pocket and Fritz jumped to his feet, trotting swiftly toward the door where he proceeded to bark at the intruder.

"What the hell?" West's voice asked from the front door, and Prussia groaned, rubbing his face.

"I thought you were too busy to get out here today," Prussia said, stepping out of the kitchen and into the hall where West could see him, even though West's attention was completely consumed by the yapping puppy at his feet. " _Fritz_ , stop."

Amazingly, even though the dog had only been christened about a half-hour prior it recognized its name and sat down, its tail thumping against the ground as it looked up at West.

Definitely a German Shepherd.

"A meeting was canceled," West said, looking up momentarily before the puppy at his feet grabbed his attention again. "…Fritz?"

Prussia sighed. "Found him in the backyard. He's, uh, going to the shelter."

Unfortunately for  _that_  plan, West had already sunk down to his knees - despite the suit - and clearly was melting faster than Chernobyl reactor four. Prussia was well aware West loved dogs; he'd raised strays throughout his entire childhood and even through major conflicts. Of course, all of those dogs had ended up dying in catastrophic ways.

"Hello, Fritz," West said, extending a hand for the dog to sniff and getting that goofy look on his face that most humans reserved for their actual offspring. "Aren't you a handsome fellow, yes, hello."

At this point, Fritz had obviously recognized that this was a Human To Please, so he flopped over onto his stomach for scratches, tongue lolling out of his mouth and tail happily wagging.

West, his new house momentarily forgotten, had a big dopey grin on his face by this point; Prussia sighed. When West started giving Fritz belly scratches that Fritz accepted by pawing at the air with the utmost of canine glee, Prussia resigned himself to dog ownership. After a moment, though, West looked up with a raised eyebrow. "You named it Fritz."

"It's a perfectly fine name," Prussia said, crossing his arms defensively.

"Fritz the  _girl_ ," West said dryly, looking down at the dog, which was still on its back.

Oh. Well. That… was unfortunate. "Fritz… anna," Prussia supplied cleverly.

That was how Fritzanna became part of the household, even though the dog never really answered to anything other than Fritz.

# # #

October 2, 1990, 3pm

Even though the Germanys technically owned the house out in Reinickendorf, they were still living in their apartments for the most part since furniture had to be moved. Prussia looked up from taping a box of West's plate collection shut to see East open the front door and raise a hand in greeting.

"Packing going well?" East asked mildly, brushing her hair back behind an ear and extending a hand in greeting.

Prussia snorted. "As well as it can be," he said, shaking his head and returning the handclasp. At the sound of the door opening, Fritz trotted out into the kitchen and proceeded to roll all over East's feet, making her smile.

"Some guard dog you have here," East said, bending over and giving the dog's stomach a friendly scratch.

"She's not good for much other than chewing up the whole place and pissing in corners," Prussia muttered. "Anyway, shouldn't you be shoving all of your worldly possessions in boxes, too?"

East shrugged. "Unlike West, I don't have too much to bring other than clothes," she said, crossing her arms. "I don't think we'll have much need for my plastic set of dishes."

"You could donate them to a museum," Prussia suggested, amused.

East snorted, standing up, letting Fritz trot away to sniff at the floorboards. "Today's the big day, don't you know?"

Prussia laughed. "Oh, right. Too bad I'll be here buried in  _boxes_  for your marriage to West."

"It is  _not_  a wedding," West's voice protested from the kitchen. "For the thousandth time!" After a moment, he poked his head from around the frame, extending his hand at East, which she grasped. "Hello, by the way," he said.

"Hello," East said, voice a little dry, giving Prussia a flat look as she released West's hand.

"Damn near the closest thing I've seen to it in terms of nations," Prussia said, absently shrugging his shoulder upward as he finished taping the box. "She's even taking your name.  _Hungary_  didn't even do that when she married the fucking fop back in the day - praise God."

At this West went redder than a tomato and retreated back into the kitchen, making East laugh and shake her head. "Anyway, I'm here to ask what the plans were for this evening," she said.

"You both go and see them raise your new mutual flag over Berlin and then go ritualistically fuck in a five-star hotel," Prussia said helpfully, beginning to check another set of plates for cracks before carefully stacking them in a new box. "Meanwhile, I do all the grunt work to set the house up."

East was fixing him with a peculiar look.

" _What_  five-star hotel?" West asked from the kitchen, apparently still too embarrassed to show his face.

Prussia sat back on his heels and pulled out the piece of paper he'd stolen from the house's kitchen table yesterday. "The Hotel Adlon Kempinski, apparently," Prussia said, holding out the crumpled invitation, which East took with a raised eyebrow. "The Brandenburg Gate Deluxe Suite. No expense spared. Back in the  _old_  days they'd probably just have you fuck on top of it to maximize symbolism and minimize spending, but since everybody's got a camera these days they apparently settled for the hotel next door for propriety's sake. Not to mention, all of those people staring would probably put West off his stroke--"

"Oh  _God_ ," West interrupted, emerging from the kitchen to look over East's shoulder at the announcement she held. "Can't we cancel it?"

"If we wanted to decline we had to do so by a half-hour ago," East said flatly. Both she and West looked up from the announcement to level Prussia with an identical glare.

"Ksesesesese," Prussia chuckled. "Too late, it seems," he said cheerfully. "You're just going to have to go nail each other in complete and total luxury with a nice view. What a shame."

West groaned and put a hand over his face. "I would much rather do it in the comfort of my own--"

"Your home isn't going to be ready yet, your apartment is full of boxes, and reunification calls for a setting slightly more grand than an Ikea warehouse," Prussia interrupted drolly. "It's not every day the government will set you up in the lap of luxury for the sole purpose of consensual sex. Go enjoy it. I'll worry about getting the details together… though we're not going to have a decent kitchen ready for at least another week either way."

East sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You are a dick," she told Prussia firmly.

"Ksesesese," Prussia chuckled, taping the second box shut. "I knew very well that both of you are far too practical to accept such a gift, so I accepted it for you," he said with a shrug.

West was still attempting to glare a hole through Prussia; fortunately, Prussia was immune. After a few moments, West appeared to give up with a low sigh. "We don't have to do anything at the actual ceremonies," West said after a moment, shaking his head and apparently giving in to the fact that he couldn't turn down the hotel room at this point without appearing extremely rude and disorganized. "We can attend as normal citizens; we don't have to do anything in an official capacity. After that…" he plucked the invitation from East's hands and scanned the text with a sigh. "Apparently we can check into the suite as early as 6pm, though I assume we'll want to be at the actual ceremony at midnight."

"Yes, of course," East said, eyes flicking up to Prussia. "You're not coming?"

"I'll be there for some of it," Prussia said, turning to neatly stack a pile of boxes labeled 'kitchen.' "But, frankly, I have little interest in being there for too long. Big crowds aren't so much my thing these days unless I'm actively fighting for freedom, it seems. Ceremonial nicety has lost a bit of its charm after a few centuries of it."

"But meddling in the affairs of others apparently hasn't lost  _any_  charm," West muttered, making Prussia cackle. He looked up at East. "You're all right with this, though?" he asked, getting his habitually-awkward edge back.

East raised an eyebrow and folded the hotel invitation in half. "If I weren’t, it's probably a little bit late, now, don't you think?"

Prussia winced as West's gaze hit the floor; Fritz shook herself and stepped away from whatever she'd been chewing on in the corner (a plastic dog bone; something appropriate for once) to go flop on West's feet, obviously sensing his sudden drop in mood.

The silence prompted a sigh from East, who stepped forward and put a hand under West's chin, pushing it up. "I am more than all right with it," she said, voice a little lower as her hand came down so her arms could go around West's middle; her chin rested against West's shoulder. "You know that."

Prussia's lip ticked as West's arms slowly went around East's waist in return. "I just don't…" Prussia could basically taste the hesitance, here; he could smell West's poorly-buried self-esteem issues as plainly as the trash under the sink that needed to be taken out.

"I chose this," East said after a moment. "Legally. If I didn't want you, I wouldn't have chosen you."

Prussia could see West's arms tighten around East's middle, and he smiled.

A moment later, a plate went sailing through the air to crash against the kitchen wall; West and East  _jumped_  apart, and Fritz bounded to her feet to fill the air with sharp, startled yapping as the shards fell to the floor.

Prussia was standing behind an open box of plates, fielding the twin blue-eyed looks of exasperation he received with a smile.

"You two go ahead and clean that up," Prussia said, turning to head into the bedroom before the soon-to-be married couple tried to bitch him out again.

# # #

8pm

This wasn't Germany's first time in the Adlon - the hotel was almost as old as he was, so more than a few special events had been held here over the course of the last century. It had been a while since he'd been in it last and the décor had definitely changed over time, but the overall air of grandeur and wealth was the same as ever.

"This is awkward," East muttered under her breath as the procession of bellhops lead them up to their suite.

"Prussia's a dick," Germany muttered back, self-consciously clutching his overnight bag to his chest - the bellhops had tried to remove it from his person, but he could  _carry his own bag_ , for crying out loud

East held her own bag as well. Both of them appeared to be very bad at dealing with luxury hotels. On the other hand, Germany was sure that Prussia would have had the bellhops carry him up to the suite in a litter, were it offered.

After a very stilted and silent ride in an elevator, the army of hotel personnel led them to an oak door at the end of a hall and opened it with great fanfare, ushering them in to an absolutely huge suite. Palatial windows overlooked the Brandenburg Gate, and the entire sitting room was done in pure white, offering overstuffed couches and glass tables etched in brass. Contemporary art adorned the walls; an arched doorway led to what appeared to be a small study, and a large dining room heralded off to the left. There were multiple fireplaces; one of the bellhops went to open the door to the large bedroom, motioning them in.

The canopied bed was again, dressed entirely in white and absolutely massive. East put her bag down on the duvet while the head bellhop gave Germany a rundown of the room, including an unnecessary tutorial on how to operate the phone.

When the crowd blessedly left, East snickered. "Need me to show you how to use that telephone contraption one more time?" she teased.

Germany groaned and rubbed his forehead. "I must look like I stepped out of 1850," he quipped, heading back out to the living area, leaving East to explore the bedroom a little more. There was a crystal liquor cabinet sitting next to the large white sitting area: may as well take advantage of it. "Did you want something to drink?"

"Alcoholic?" East asked, poking her head out of the bedroom and getting confirmation when she saw where Germany was heading. "Yeah. Whatever you're having is fine."

Germany squatted to open the doors, and selected a bottle. "Scotch, then. With water or--"

"Straight," East's voice instructed from inside the bedroom, though it seemed a little echo-like.

Germany nodded - though he was well-aware East couldn't see him - and poured two fingers into two heavy-bottomed highball glasses.

A laugh suddenly erupted from the bedroom. "West, come here. Bring the drinks."

Picking up the drinks as instructed, Germany stepped into the bedroom to see that East wasn't there - the door on the far side of the room was open, though, and a glimpse of tile told him that the room was a bathroom. Crossing the bedroom and entering produced a newly-tiled bathroom done in white and brass, with--

The gigantic tub was already full of steaming water, and the entire place had been strewn with rose petals. East was standing next to the bath, her bare feet in the flowers and an amused expression on her face. "Looks like they rolled out the red carpet for  _us_ ," she intoned.

Germany felt the blood rush to his face as he quickly lifted one of the scotch glasses to his mouth to take a drink. "Probably Prussia," he muttered over the lip of the glass.

"It's easiest just to blame everything on him," East agreed with a nod, reaching out expectantly; Germany handed her the other glass. After a moment, she shrugged. "Oh, hell, whatever." Placing the scotch down on the edge of the tub, she started to divest herself of clothing.

"Erm," Germany said intelligently.

East, naked and tossing her blue dress against the wall - her trademark move - rolled her eyes and stepped into the tub. "Come on, you  _too_ ," she ordered, carefully lowering herself into the steaming, rose-scented water. "It's not like this bath isn't big enough for five people and their extended families."

At the order, Germany put his own drink down and carefully divested himself of his own clothing, only his he folded carefully and sat on the toilet seat before slowly easing his way into the water after East - it was a bit too hot. The staff probably had drawn it scalding so that it would retain warmth for their arrival.

East was already sitting at the bottom of the white tub - it was so deep the water almost went up to her neck. Her knees were drawn up to her chest and she rested her chin against them, looking at Germany curiously.

Germany let his eyes shift off to the side, and he took another sip of his drink, still feeling a bit awkward.

"I want to ask you about something Prussia told me, before the Wall fell and everything," East said after a few moments, getting Germany's attention again.

Germany allowed his eyes to settle back on East's face, and on the long strands of her blonde hair waving lazily underwater, like golden seaweed.

"So, the first time I had sex with him… the first time I had sex at all, actually, he was talking about you a lot. He said… well, a few things, but he basically implied that you always do what he says during sex, and that he makes it worth your while. Is that true?"

Er. Germany flicked his gaze away again. "…yes, for the most part," he said after a moment.

"So you've never penetrated him, or anything like that?" Her eyes were still resting on him - her arm slid up out of the water to collect her own scotch.

He shook his head. "I have," he answered, wondering why  _this_  was the topic of conversation at the moment. "Not as often as… well, he  _does_  prefer to be the one on top most of the time, but sometimes he has me do it. Had. It's been a while."

East sipped her drink. "So he tops from the bottom, then," she said, sounding amused.

Germany shifted his eyes back over to East's and considered his answer for a moment. "It's less about the positioning," he said after a moment. "He tells me what he wants and, ah, I do it." A red blush was starting to bloom on his face - he could feel it. He covered it with another sip of alcohol.

This got a slow, careful nod out of East. "Just because it's always been that way?"

Germany opened his mouth for a moment, and then closed it. "Well, it  _has_ , but that's not the only reason," he said, not sure how to explain it well. "I don't… it's not like I roll over for  _everyone_ who looks in my direction," he muttered, taking another drink and looking away.

"I wasn't under the impression that you did," East said, leaning back against the edge of the tub - the water rippled, sending the rose petals to skim across the surface. "I just wondered why it was different with Prussia."

Germany tapped the base of his glass against the tub, thinking. "I…" there was a long silence, then, and Germany had to swallow a  _large_  mouthful of alcohol to get the next sentence out: "I love him," he mumbled. "And… it just… what else… what else can you give that proves it, other than yourself, entirely? And he…"--Germany was going to have to go and get more alcohol if this conversation continued--"I don't think he's ever told me he loves me, but… I know he does. The things he says to me… the way he treats me when we're… having sex, he doesn't have to. He… the way he treats me afterward."

East's lip ticked up - her eyes had softened. "He definitely loves you," she said. "He called you his son, once."

Germany looked away, his throat too tight to speak for a few long seconds. "You weren't wrong, that one time we had the fight," he said lowly. "He  _did_  give himself to Russia and came up with a plan for me so I could escape and have a chance at a better captivity. I was going to go with him. I would have followed him to the end of the earth; I knew it was over, you know, I wasn't fighting to win any longer. I was fighting to stay with him. He wouldn't allow it." He looked over at East again. "At the time… I thought it was because I was too weak. But that…" he shook his head, and finished the alcohol. "It… that wasn't about me, or, well, it wasn't about my weakness. It was about his strength. He was strong enough to let me go. He loved me enough to  _make_  me go. Honestly, I don't know what the world would look like today if he hadn't. All of this,"--he motioned his finger in a circle, indicating the surroundings--"is for him. For a while… right after the war, I honestly wanted to die. But I couldn't… partially because I'm a nation, and, well, once the Cold War started I was too useful to die, but also because it would have made Prussia's sacrifice meaningless. It had to mean something."

East was looking at him quietly, her eyes, twinned to his, carefully sizing up the information. "So, by extension… your physical body belongs to him, as well."

Germany hummed, looking into his empty scotch glass. "…yes. I'm… not sure… what would end up happening if he suddenly decided he wanted to start really hurting me, or humiliating me… but… I don't… he's never done that. I've always done what he wants sexually, but what he wants…  _is_  what I want. It's never been otherwise."  

"So he's the only one, then?" East inquired, after the silence had stretched out. "The only one you'll do that for?"

Germany looked up. East cocked an eyebrow.

"You want…" Germany said, trailing off, unsure.

"It's just a question," East said, a grin crossing her features. "I'm not going to go storming out the door if you say you won't let me beat you with a stick."

Germany's gaze shuttled off to the side. "Is that what you want?" he asked, voice quiet.

The silence extended for so long that Germany looked back over at East. When she had caught his eyes, she shook her head. "No," she said after a moment. Lifting her glass, she drained the rest of the scotch before putting it down on the soap dish and carefully moving across the tub.

The water's surface rippled slowly as East glided over to Germany, first off to the side and then straddling him, her knees planting on either side of his hips, held slightly aloft, buoyant due to the water. Germany tipped his head up to keep eye contact with her.

After a few moments of silence, Germany put his own glass down and let his hands slip beneath the surface of the rose-scented water to rest on her soft-yet-firm hips, his thumb tracing gentle circles against those swells of feminine flesh. It didn't take long for a strange yearning to build up inside of him, something foreign-familiar, a distant ache of the impossible combined with the natural; the righteousness and inevitability of spring soil, perhaps. Fertile. With something.

After a moment, one of East's warm-damp hands went to rest comfortingly against the back of his skull; Germany leaned forward to rest his head against her shoulder as his own hands moved up to East's lower back, tugging her toward him, her breasts pressing against the firm plane of his chest.

A few silent moments later, Germany's hands slid slowly from against East's back to rest firmly on her lower abdomen, large hands rubbing thoughtfully over the curve of stomach and hip.

He could feel East's lips curl up in a smile against his forehead. "Sudden urge to procreate, then?"

Germany's body seized up. "That's impossible," he said, as unbidden tons of longing took that moment to crash against him. "Nations don't reproduce."

"It's not a bad fantasy, though," East went on, tipping her head. "Bringing life into the world in a real way, an intimate way. Knowing it was mine. Having sex for a purpose other than politics."

"She'd be mine  _too_ ," Germany instantly protested, hands rubbing slightly, almost expectantly against East's abdomen.

"She?" East asked, an amused expression crossing her face.

"She'd be the best fighter pilot in all the land," Germany said dreamily, making East laugh.

"And then the difficult teenage years, where all she wants is the keys to the Lockheed F-104," East said with a sigh.

"Like hell I'd be sticking my daughter in one of  _those_ ," Germany muttered, shaking his head before nuzzling against East's shoulder once more with a sigh.

East was quiet for a moment, before lowering herself enough in the water to sit on Germany's lap and pull back enough to look in his face. "You'd be a good father," she said, shrugging up a shoulder, making Germany blush.

"I'd try," Germany said quietly, looking away.

East let a small smile cross her face as she lifted her hands to press against his chest. "You succeed at most things you try, I think."

Germany tipped his face up to look at her and, thankfully, East had learned well from Prussia's lessons on how to read his facial expressions.

She kissed him without being asked, and he yielded without being told.

# # #

11:30pm

"I swear to God, I am going to punt you if you don't sit still," Prussia muttered to the dog on the end of the leash, who was happily prancing around as far as she could get on her tethers.

Prussia wasn't actually upset, though. It was difficult to be, out here on the platz with the spontaneous fireworks, the crowd holding flags, the occasional cheerful fireworks going off in random directions. For such a momentous occasion everybody was comparatively calm; it was almost like being at a county fair.

No West or East to be seen, however. It was impossible to tell if they were still in the hotel or not, as all the lights were on in the building to illuminate the space beside the Brandenburg Gate attractively. (Though, if Prussia were a betting man - and he was - he'd bet that they hadn't left the suite. Prussia himself was no stranger to political couplings of this ilk; they were intoxicating, a drug of sorts. Ceremony paled in comparison.)

At any rate, Prussia figured he'd stay until they hoisted the flag, and then he'd grab a taxi back out to the new house. He'd managed to move the beds out there today, so sleeping back at the apartment would be unpleasant.

With a sigh, Prussia groaned as he squatted down to perch on the edge of the curb, his knees cracking as he did so. "I am getting too old for this shit," he told Fritz flatly, reaching out to pat a hand along the dog's side. Fritz wagged her tail and then proceeded to roll all over his shoes. Again.

Prussia had a few moments to quietly contemplate the crowd, life, politics, love, and the universe before an American accent scared the living shit out of him.

"This must be the new dog!" America boomed from behind him, nearly sending Prussia up into the stratosphere. " _Aww_ , what a cutie! Hello there  _precious_  hello hello aren't you just  _adorable_  hello--"

Unfortunately, Fritz's excitable nature fit in with America's enthusiastic babbling and by the time the other nation had bent down to offer scratches she was already rolling over herself in excitement and peeing a little in absolute rapture as America offered entirely-too-robust petting motions.

"God, you're loud," Prussia said, rubbing the side of his face in exasperation, raising an eyebrow as he realized America was walking around with his sledgehammer. Again. "And carrying a weapon."

"Huh?" America asked, looking up with a genuinely confused expression, his free hand still attentively scratching Fritz behind the ears. "Oh, the sledge? Naw, man, this isn't a  _weapon_. You crazy?"

Prussia rolled his eyes. "It's an odd choice to bring to a  _party_. You're not still knocking down the Berlin Wall, are you? I think they want to keep the rest for posterity at this point."

America hummed, blue eyes pleased and entirely focused on the ecstatic puppy below him. "Nah. I didn't even bust down too much of it last year. About a block or so. I didn't want to ruin it for everybody else. Leave some for the people, you know?"

This earned America a raised eyebrow. "Generous of you. So what's it for?"

The crowd murmured, and both America and Prussia looked over to see a procession bringing out a gigantic German flag onto the platz, in preparation of raising it at midnight. America grinned. "Oh, I dunno. Maybe I thought I'd go and ring the Freedom Bell with it."

Prussia fixed America with a deadpan look. "That bell rings itself," he informed the other flatly.

"But maybe  _I_ want to ring it," America said, his shit-eating grin widening.

"If you break West's stupid fucking bell with a sledgehammer, I will never hear the end of it," Prussia said dryly. "Absolutely not."

America stuck out his bottom lip in a pout, standing up and making Fritz whimper pathetically. "But I'm the one that gave it to him!"

"You can't give somebody a gift and then come back forty years later to smash it with a hammer," Prussia explained patiently, shaking his head. "That makes you an asshole."

America hummed distantly and shaded his eyes, looking over in the direction of the ex-Berlin Wall, like he was searching for something. "Perhaps. Hey, remember when I was in charge and if I wanted to smash Germany's gift-bell nobody would have stopped me? I miss that. Let's call this whole freedom thing off."

America was grinning, still, and Prussia fixed him with a flat look. "Get the fuck out of here," Prussia instructed.

"Soon," America said, shouldering the sledgehammer again and looking out toward the ex-Wall. "Anyway, I gotta go. See you later!"

Before Prussia could respond, America and his hammer had slid into the thick crowd.

The bell rang.

Prussia's head whipped over in its direction - it would have been physically impossible for America to get over there so fast, so Prussia was reasonably confident it wasn't him.

Reasonably.

"Whatever," Prussia said to himself, turning his head the other direction to watch the gigantic striped flag slowly rise on its pole as the crowd started to cheer.

# # #

11:45pm

The bell was ringing outside; fireworks occasionally illuminated the dark skies as the minutes ticked by, but fireworks weren't what was distracting Germany at that very moment.

" _Ah_ , God," East moaned, her head thrown back in ecstasy; they had moved from the now-cool waters of the bath a long time back for the softness and white expanse of the bed. Germany was seated, leaning against the pillows, his hands desperately gripping the headboard behind him as East rolled her hips atop him, impaled and gyrating in perfect ovals, her hands braced against his pectorals.

Another flash of fireworks exploded outside of the window, painting her alabaster skin bright white with light, blinding patterns burning color into Germany's eyes as sensation curled and knotted along his spine and  _oh_.

"Ah, yes,  _yes_ ," East panted, almost more to herself than anything else. "So close, so  _close_ \--" Her hips twisted another time, her fingers turned to pinch and flick at the hardened nubs of  _feeling_  that were Germany's nipples and--

The bell rang, echoing, low and counting out in uncertain patterns and intervals the time until release.

Germany's hands were helplessly flexing against the headboard; he was thrusting slightly but his leverage was minimal in this position, which was the point.

"Try not to break it," East said breathlessly, and when her hands tipped his head up, Germany was rewarded with her flushed, amused expression. "The headboard. Expensive."

She swiveled her hips once more and both of them moaned as the bell's dissonant ring echoed through the platz and through their bodies. In Germany's eyes, this was more: the woman atop him was something of a goddess, something ethereal and yet more concrete than his own bones, the prize and yet still the goal, the untouchable despite being joined in this most intimate of ways.

Germany let his head slump down onto his chest when East released it - one of her hands rested against the back of his sweaty neck, pulling him into the crook of her neck as her hips continued to rock against his, the slow path to the inevitable end--

The bell ringing again did nothing to conceal Germany's helpless moan - he opened his mouth to taste the sweat of clavicle and seraphim, his synapses reduced to primal feel and desire.

"Take me," he pleaded desperately, too far gone for anything but the truth. "Take me,  _please_."

"Take you?" The voice seemed to be coming from  _everywhere_  - when Germany opened his eyes he was blinded by fireworks so he closed them again, burying his eyes in the safe darkness of flesh, "Aren't you supposed to be taking  _me_?"

This seemed wrong; Germany shook his head, gratified when the hand against his neck slid up to gently cup the back of his head. "No," he panted, voice rough and quiet. "Take my name; take all of me. Please."

There was a moment where East's body went still, before her hips lifted and Germany winced as his slick cock slapped back against his stomach.

"Position change," East said. "Open your eyes."

Germany did, and East shifted to lay back against the pillows, her long blonde hair spread around her like rays to a sun. She lifted a hand and beckoned; the implicit order was obvious.

Carefully, Germany shifted atop her, leaning forward to brace himself on his forearms. East bent a knee, spreading herself, and Germany shifted forward, using one of his hands to guide him back inside East's well-lubricated interior, reveling in the feel of damp skin and coarse hair grinding against each other in primordial, undignified, timeless, wonderful rhythm.

"Mm," East said, tipping her head back against the pillows, spread so finely; another blue firework illuminated her skin cool and watery before a gold firework painted her electric.

Building a slow rhythm of his own choosing, Germany reached down to grab one of East's fleshy hips; she shifted up to allow it and rocked back against him to facilitate deeper penetration. Germany's eyes rolled back in his head.

"Look at me," East commanded.

The bell rang.

Germany obeyed, and was rewarded with her smile. It lit the world.

The bell rang. It rang again. It didn't stop ringing.

Germany's grip tightened on East's body, and she the same to him; moving faster now, pressing into each other tight enough to meld as the bell rang over and over and Germany's hips moved over and over and the fireworks lit the sky over and over and East's heart beat over and over and the pulse was in Germany's head, behind his ears, in his spine, through his body, and the bell rang and the bombs and the fireworks and the bell and the wall and it was falling apart and down and coming together again--

# # #

October 3, 12:30am

This far away from the festivities, the streets were much quieter: not everybody had gone out to join the crowd for the celebration. It was more like a normal night in this part of Berlin, an unassuming stretch where a gigantic wall used to stand, seemingly impenetrable and forever.

America was well-aware he wasn't that old. In fact, it was a trivia point most of the older nations liked to remind him of constantly. But he was old enough to know that forever was often very short, for empires, for wars, for walls.

What was once a great monument to a conflict of nuclear threat and economic might was now a mere street corner, entirely unremarkable. With the sledgehammer still on his shoulder, America let his eyes travel along the now-invisible line curiously. How fast things change.

"It is strange, to see it gone, yes?" Russia asked from behind him.

America hummed before turning around. Predictably, Russia was leaning against an apartment complex, his ever-present pipe against his shoulder. "Yeah, it's all pretty weird."

Russia reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes; flipping back the cardboard top, he absently lipped at the collection before one stuck and he could pull his mouth away. Once done, he offered the box to America, who shook his head.

"I quit," America said, shrugging his shoulder up. "Bad for you, you know."

This gained him a deadpan look before Russia dropped his arm for a second, and then promptly offered the box out again. America looked at the box and sighed, reaching with his non-sledgehammer hand to pull one out.

"Don't tell Canada," he muttered, catching the lighter that Russia tossed at him to light the end of it.

"Is our secret," Russia said, rolling his eyes and catching the lighter when America threw it back. "Though, cigarettes is not only thing I have that is bad for me, now."

"Oh yeah?" America asked, raising his eyebrow.

When Russia pulled a McDonalds bag out from his coat pocket and shook it in America's direction a surprised bark of laughter escaped America, causing him to choke on smoke.

"Dude, how fucking big are your pockets?" America asked, covering his mouth as he attempted to stop coughing on tobacco.

"Big enough," Russia said absently, unrolling the top of the bag and pulling out a paper-wrapped hamburger, looking at it curiously. "You know, they make such big deal out of such small food."

America chuckled, and put his cigarette back to his lips. "Something tells me it's not really about the food."

Russia had stuck his own cigarette back in his mouth as he carefully unwrapped the burger, setting his pipe down for the time being. Once half the burger was exposed, he motioned it in America's direction like he was giving a toast before biting down into it.

"Mmm," Russia said, shaking his head back and forth in an exaggerated motion. "Taste of capitalism."

"Hey, man, that's what world peace tastes like these days, so eat up," America said with a grin, shifting his sledgehammer down off his shoulder to rest on the ground, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

"Why bring large hammer?" Russia asked, swallowing his bite of hamburger before taking another one and bringing his cigarette up to his mouth for a mid-bite drag.

"It's a weapon," America said innocently.

Russia looked down at the sledgehammer disdainfully before looking back up at America with a raised eyebrow. "That is not a weapon," he said, unimpressed.

America's mouth twisted up in a smile. "No," he said. "It's not. But I figured you had your pipe, so it was only fair."

Russia smiled, and pushed the rest of the hamburger into his mouth, chewing and shoving the paper wrapping back in his apparently-bottomless pocket. He swallowed. "I am guessing we will not bring weapons any more."

"I imagine we will still have them," America said, voice a little dry, flicking away the butt of his cigarette and watching the ashes dance out across what was the inner German border.

"Oh, yes, of course," Russia said, picking up his pipe and waving America's statement off with the hand that held his cigarette. "We just won't bring them to the table. Now we only bring  _not_  weapons. Just in case."

America snorted. "The glorious, peaceful future."

Russia hummed, and ran his tongue around his mouth, smacking his lips together. "McDonalds, world peace…" he turned his back to America, clearly fixing to head back to wherever he was staying. "To me, tastes artificial. Congratulations on quitting the smoking." As he walked away, Russia exhaled a bluish cloud of smoke that drifted over his shoulder. "I hear it is bad for the health."

America didn't reply at first, and let Russia get a few steps away before clearing his throat. "Gagarin," he said, and Russia's footsteps stopped. "Komarov."

"Yes?" Russia asked, still not turning around.

America pointed up, to the moon. "They're up there."

"Hm," Russia said. "Yes. I know." There was another pause. "Grissom. Chaffee. White."

Silence. America tipped his head back to look up toward the moon. "Makes everything on earth seem pretty stupid," he said.

Russia sighed. "Most things are," he replied. "Particularly when you look back from distance."

"Not everybody gets to look back from the distance of the moon, though," America said, looking back over at Russia with a smile.

Russia turned around, and tipped his head curiously at America for a few moments, fingers absently toying with the end of his mostly-ignored cigarette; there was enough left in it for a single drag, perhaps. His purple eyes took in America's amused expression for a moment. "No," Russia said, and put the cigarette back up to his mouth, pulling in the last bit of smoke with lungs like bellows.

America didn't move when Russia crossed over to him in two steps; he didn't move when fingers went to his jaw to tip his head back. Russia's head leaned forward, but didn't kiss - America's lips parted.

A long, breathy, smoke-filled exhale exited Russia's parted lips: America inhaled, pulling smoke and humidity into his own lungs as Russia held him still, wisps of tobacco curling around the pair of them; after a moment, America repaid the favor, exhaling back into Russia's mouth, intimate and slow.

"The only ones who do are ones not afraid to die," Russia said, voice low and rolling, the much diminished smoke cloud swirling around them. "The ones who will ruin themselves to win."

"I thought winning wasn't everything," America said lowly, the last wisps of smoke escaping from between his teeth.

Russia grinned, now - America noticed that one of his back teeth was capped in gold. "I thought it was the only thing."

America was quiet, but let a smile paint his own face. This time, when Russia released his chin and turned to walk away, America let him go.

He stood alone.

 # # #

October 3, 10:30am

Waking up felt like clawing through oil-drenched water to the surface; everything ached.

After about ten minutes of laying prostrate atop the soft mattress, a wind brushed Germany's hair and he managed to open his eyes. He could see the reflection of the Brandenburg Gate in the mirror above the bed; the sky was clear blue. The wind was from the open window that East had cracked last night, claiming that the room was starting to stink of sex.

It didn't stink this morning, though: on the contrary, there was something sweet in the air. It smelled like roses.

It took a moment for Germany to notice an acute stinging on his left pectoral; it got worse when he moved.

" _Ach_ ," he hissed, slowly and painfully pushing himself up on his elbows, trying to get his hazy thoughts in order. The bell had been ringing--

Germany blinked as he looked down at the single red-and-white rose that had somehow appeared between his chest and the mattress; it was embedded across his left pectoral, the thorns on the stem digging into the skin above his heart.

With a confused grimace, Germany pulled it away from his skin and looked down at the flower: despite being smashed below him for who-knew-how-long, it was remarkably intact. For a distant moment he ran the blunt edge of his fingernail over the delicate tops of the petals. The body of the rose was white with the edges sporting curled red tips, as if it had been dipped in pigment.

His mind not quite there, yet, Germany looked down at his chest and noticed that the rose had left an imprint over his heart. It looked like barbed wire, the thick smoothness of the rose's stem juxtaposed against the thorns leaving sharper marks--

Whipping his head around, suddenly, Germany pushed himself from the bed and went into the bedroom - still full of wilted rose petals and the long-cooled waters of last night's bath, and looked at himself frantically in the mirror, his hand rubbing over the mark.

It wasn't an imprint. It was a raised scar crossing over the entirety of his left pectoral, over his heart. Germany couldn't be sure, but he also looked wider--

The panic starting to grow, Germany turned around and grabbed the shirt he'd folded on the toilet seat last night, still sitting there. He tugged it over his shoulders, fingers starting to shake.

It wouldn't button. He was too wide for it.

A couple of moments passed, and his eyes traveled over to the back of the bathroom, where East's blue dress still sat in its discarded heap on the floor.

A few unsteady, gasping breaths. Mounting panic. He looked down at the rose in his hand.

There was nobody else in the suite. He was alone.

 _Alone_.

Fear suddenly spiked through him in a hot lance and he grabbed the only article of clothing in the suite that would cover him - a white bathrobe - along with his keys and ran in a panicked barefoot thunder out of the suite and down the stairs, past the confused and alarmed army of hotel personnel, out the door, and into the nearest taxi.

Half hyperventilating, Germany gave the driver the address to his apartment, gripping the back of the seat in front of him so hard his fingernails gouged holes in it, still holding the rose.

# # #

His apartment had been empty. East's old apartment had been empty. Only boxes and silent rooms.

Desperation starting to choke him, Germany gave the bewildered driver one last address: the house in Reinickendorf.

It seemed to take forever to get there. The streets were full of revelers on this first national holiday of unification, but Germany only felt fear.

After what seemed like ages, the house came into view; Germany told the driver to bill the whole ride to the room - however many hundreds of marks it must have ended up costing - and ran up the chipped terracotta front steps in a desperate bound, barely managing to unlock the front door.

"Prussia?" Germany asked the silence, voice high-pitched with desperation. "Prussia, God, please--"

Moving past the front door, Germany accidentally kicked something below his bare feet: it skittered down the hallway and bounced off the baseboards.

It was a necklace. A black iron cross necklace.

Stumbling after it, Germany dropped to his knees with a  _thud_  and picked it up - Prussia never would have left this in a hallway--

The sound that tore from his throat was hardly human, a manic scream of loss as he held both the necklace and the rose to his face, bent over and broken.

Footsteps thudded in front of him and weight crashed to its knees.

"West, West!" Prussia's voice said from in front of him - it felt strangely damp as soaking wet hands shoved themselves under Germany's chin and shoved his face up. "West, Jesus Christ, what the fuck is going on?"

Woozy, Germany managed to open his eyes to see Prussia in front of him, blessedly alive: entirely naked and soaking wet, creating a puddle on the clean hallway floor, but  _there_.

A moment later, yapping filled the house with echoes as Fritz followed Prussia, clearly alarmed at the commotion.

Germany stared blankly at Prussia, breathing too quickly, clutching the rose and the cross like amulets against evil, the world starting to spin--

"West,  _look at me_ ," Prussia ordered, voice steel and authority: not to be disobeyed. Even in his haze, Germany forced his eyes up. "I need you to breathe with me.  _In_ \--" Prussia inhaled loudly through his mouth: Germany shakily mirrored the motion. " _Out_ \--" a long exhale that Germany attempted to emulate, though his was far more choppy.

It took a few moments for Germany's breathing to normalize, and when it did, Germany was exhausted as if he'd ran for a few thousand kilometers. He slumped against the wall. Fritz, clearly worried, hopped on Germany's lap to paw at his thighs, whimpering.

Germany's eyes slid closed, though they opened again when Prussia reached out to cup his jaw. Prussia didn't say anything, but the concern written in his red eyes was obvious. Germany swallowed, and held up the black iron cross necklace he had come across in the hallway.

Prussia looked down at it. "I was showering," he said, voice slow, explaining why he was naked and soaking wet. "Where'd you find that?"

"Hallway," Germany croaked, his head dipping down to pillow more effectively into Prussia's touch.

Prussia was quiet for a moment. "I put it on the bed," he went on, and his gaze shifted to the whimpering puppy in Germany's lap. "… as for how it got to the hallway, troublemaker there may be a bit of a thief."

Overwhelmed, exhausted, headachy, Germany swallowed hard against the inevitability of tears. After a shaky moment, he dropped the cross to hold its chain, and reached forward: Prussia slowly bent his wet head as Germany returned the jewelry to its rightful spot.

"Don't you  _ever_  take it fucking off again," Germany whispered fiercely around the lump in his throat. " _Ever_."

Prussia nodded slowly, his eyes shifting over to the rose that Germany was still clutching like a lifeline. He looked back over at Germany. "I won't," he said.

" _Promise me_ ," Germany said tightly, wound like a seven-day-clock, body starting to shake.

Prussia moved his thumb back and forth in a soothing motion against Germany's cheek. "I won't ever take it off again," he said, voice low. "I promise."

At that, Germany surged forward and wrapped Prussia up in his arms, pulling his slighter, older body against him, burying his head in Prussia's neck as he breathed thickly, inhaling humidity and  _life_.

Prussia's damp fingers started to work through Germany's hair, slow and steady. After a moment, his other hand scooped up Fritz, and Prussia carefully tucked the puppy against Germany's neck so she could appropriately soothe him with licks against his stubble. Germany clutched both of them close.

They didn't move for a long, long time.

# # #

November 9, 1990

West was at work. Sometimes it was difficult to get him  _away_  from it, these days - Prussia knew that West had a tendency to be a workaholic when stressed or trying not to think too much. Thankfully, he would still listen to Prussia if Prussia got stern enough: a few curt words was often all it took to get West away from his papers and into bed at night, docile and exhausted, curling against Prussia's much-smaller body with Fritz sleeping atop him. (At the rate Fritz was growing, though, she probably wasn't going to fit on West's shoulder much longer.)

Normally Prussia would have been far stricter about a dog sleeping in the bed with him, but figured it was better for West's mental state to have as much open affection about as possible. He had never been as grateful for a dog as he had been for Fritz: West did often have trouble relating openly to humans or nations, and the dog had  _clearly_  been a huge help in assuaging West's stress and guilt.

 _One year ago today_ , Prussia thought, kneeling in his back yard where he had been pulling weeds. It was too late in the year for planting, but clearing in preparation of the next growing season was never a bad idea.  _One year ago today when everything changed forever_.

It was so bizarre to think about, honestly. He was an old nation, to be sure, and he'd seen his fair share of unforgettable and unbelievable things throughout the centuries. But things… things just seemed to move so  _fast_.

Fritz, sniffing the ground dutifully - she was definitely part German shepherd, it was becoming more obvious as she aged - came over to check on Prussia's pile of weeds before sniffing back off toward the back of the property once more. Prussia snorted, and pushed himself up to his feet, collecting the pulled weeds to dump into the compost bin before brushing himself off and walking inside.

The house was, indeed, coming along together nicely - when West could be levered away from his political duties, he was fastidiously installing cabinetry and painting walls. The kitchen had been fitted with brand-new cabinets in striking, bright blue.

In fact, Prussia had noticed a lot of blue going into the new house. Blue cabinets, blue rooms, blue furniture. Every room, a bit of blue.

Somewhat unique to the kitchen, though, was the perpetual bouquet of red and white roses in a crystal vase, placed in front of the eastern window so they could soak in morning sunlight.

"I never thought you much for fresh cut flowers," Prussia had said with a raised eyebrow, the day that West had first brought them in to set in the unfinished kitchen. It had been the day after reunification, actually - West had set the single red and white rose in a beer glass under the window, and had gone out only to return with a proper vase and twelve more flowers for company.

"France introduced me to the idea," Germany had said, as if there were no other motivation behind it. "He brought me flowers once and he was right… they add a certain amount of charm. Freshness."

Prussia hadn't said anything else. It would have been pointless.

To add to it, the flowers had been around for over a month at this point, and showed no sign of dying. A single petal hadn't been dropped. Dutifully, twice a day, West emptied the water and replaced it with new: once upon awakening, and the last thing he did before sleep.

Prussia walked over to the bouquet of flowers, still warm from the morning sun.

He was quiet for a few moments, before smiling down at the flowers.

"Sie ist gerichtet," he said.

# # #

NOTES:

"Sie ist gerichtet":  "She is judged." Obligatory Faust reference. (You knew there was going to be one.) Line spoken by Mephistopheles during the 'Dungeon' scene at the end of Faust's first act, with the next line 'ist gerettet' or 'is saved' completely implied. Prussia, of course, would make a perfect Mephistopheles. You can't convince me otherwise.

ANACHRONISM: The Hotel Adlon was actually not in existence when this story takes place. It had been torn down in the late 1980s, having never been fully repared from damage taken during WWII. The current Hotel Adlon, 'Hotel Adlon Kempinski,' was not put up until after reunification in 1994. It's just so perfectly located that I had to use it. Once I got over angsting that it didn't exist when I needed it to. 

BROKEN DISHES: Prussia breaking a dish against the wall is a reference to Polterabend, which is a party involving broken crockery prior to a wedding. (Breaking plates is a popular tradition in many places where weddings are concerned. Basically, if you ever get invited to a wedding, show up with a plate to break. There's roughly a 50% chance you'll get to smash it at some point.)

Lockheed F-104: Fighter plane that was used by West German troops in the 1960s. It got a very unpopular reputation in West Germany (becoming known as 'the widowmaker') due to the amount of accidents that occurred with it. The reason for these accidents varies with what source you read: the Lockheed F-104 did indeed incur a higher-than-normal accident ratio across the world where it was used, but West German troops were also severely out of practice when it was introduced. It was one of the first planes used by West German troops after they were remobilized after WWII, and pilots hadn't been keeping up with modern fighting technology for a while.

THE FREEDOM BELL: Given to the city of Berlin in 1950 by the US, modeled after the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia. It was made in England, sent to the US where a ticker tape parade was held over it, and then it was sent to 21 US cities where over 16 million Americans signed a 'Declaration of Freedom' before it was shipped over to West Berlin and and installed in the city hall. It gets rung every day at noon, and at midnight on Christmas Eve and New Years. It was also rung continually when the German flag was raised over Berlin during the reunification ceremony.

THE FALLEN ASTRONAUT: In 1971, the crew of the Apollo 15 placed a commemorative plaque along with a small metal likeness of an astronaut on the moon. The plaque commemorates a selection of American astronauts and Soviet Cosmonauts who died in space exploration. Vladimir Komarov has one of the more tragic stories in the history of space exploration. He and cosmonaut Gagarin were extraordinarily close. In the late 1960s, the Communist party decided that a manned spaceflight needed to be launched to commemorate Lenin's birthday, despite the fact that there were over 200 design faults reported to party leaders by engineers. Increasing the pressure on party leaders was the need to capitalize on the recent Apollo 1 disaster the Americans had experienced. (Grissom, Chaffee, and White, the astronauts Russia mentions, died on Apollo 1.)

Essentially, when Komarov was put on this mission, he knew he was going to die. The backup commander was Gagarin, who desperately tried to get Komarov bumped from the position so he could take his place, but Komarov wouldn't let him. Due to the multiple failures of Soyuz 1 (the craft Komarov was piloting), Komarov died when the parachute failed to deploy upon re-entry. In probably one of the bigger 'fuck-yous' ever delivered, Komarov, as he was plummeting to his death, demanded that his funeral be open-casket. You can look up the pictures. It's… grim, to say the least. Many believe that the dramatic failure of Soyuz 1 prevented the Soviets from reaching the moon before the Americans did.

Gagarin was never the same after Komarov's death. He perished during a routine training flight the year after.

THE GOLDEN ARCHES: McDonald's is referenced a lot in this. There is actually a political theory called 'The Golden Arches Theory' that has to do with peace, war, and McDonalds. The theory was introduced by Thomas Friedman in "The Lexus and the Olive Tree" and can be summarized as thus: if two countries have McDonalds, they won't go to war with each other.

If you look at this objectively, it's not true at all and hasn't been since 1989 when the US got involved in Panama, prior to when this book was put out. (Also, right after the book was published, NATO started bombing Yugoslavia, which also invalidated the claim.) However, if taken into a broader context of capitalism, globalism, and marketing, there is some truth in it.

Practically-speaking, McDonalds is a franchise restaurant. In order for a franchise to operate, a certain economic and political framework has to be in place. McDonalds is not like an independently-owned restaurant: they are far more uniform. For instance, a Big Mac purchased in the middle-of-nowhere US will taste the same as a Big Mac purchased in Tokyo, Berlin, Moscow, or Rio. This uniformity requires distribution centers, distribution networks, and an ability to adhere to a standard set of guidelines regardless of location. There are no McDonalds in Somalia, for instance, because war and discord would not allow them to exist.

Thus, in order to have and support McDonalds, you need to have a certain level of stability in the region, as well as reasonably non-corrupt government.

McDonalds is also, fundamentally, an American company, and while the US has put tons of fast food out into the world, no other fast food company is as highly associated with Americana. Thus, it's not  _just_  about the ability to support franchise restaurants; there is an ideological component at work as well, and this was particularly salient during the Cold War years.

While this situation can't be summed up simply by the existence of a fast food company, it CAN be applied to a larger view. For instance, France and Germany aren't going to go to actual war again not just because they've decided they're peace-loving now… but because it would be economically impossible. If they tried, it wouldn't last longer than a week or so because their economic engines would not allow it. They are far too linked.

You can also view this in terms of major-power politics. Nobody is threatening each other with nuclear weapons anymore. Why? If Russia nuked the US, the entire world would economically implode. Same vice-versa. The reason why nuclear threat was so very real during the Cold War was because of entirely isolated economic systems. If Russia nuked the US during that point in history, Russia had its own economic system to fall back on that had nothing to do with the US. Such is not the case any longer.

The major powers don't go to war with each other anymore. Now it's all economics. Sanctions and counter-sanctions get thrown around, such as what's happening with Russia and the rest of the West over the Crimea issue. During the Cold War, nuclear weapons would be in play. They aren't anymore. It's all economics.

Though, the ideology of McDonalds still exists to a certain extent. At the height of the Crimean issue, McDonalds across Russia were shut down for 'hygienic reasons.' Everybody knew the reasons had nothing to do with hygiene.

Anyway, thanks for reading and being patient with the long wait for the last part. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did!


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